1 


t 


CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

HEW  YORK  •    BOSTON  •   CHICAGO  •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •   BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


• 

I 


CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 


BY 

FRANCIS  YEATS-BROWN 


U3eto  gork 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1920 

All  rights  reserved 


COPTSIQHT.  1920, 

BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  January,  i9ao. 


PREFACE 

IN  this  tale  are  laughter,  horror,  adventure,  and 
a  lively  spirit  that  makes  the  best  of  everything — 
everything  being  at  times  pretty  bad.  There  are 
moments  when  the  reader  asks  himself,  I  wonder 
what  I  should  have  done?  I  wonder  if  I  could  have 
got  through  this?  And  perhaps,  too,  he  may  ask 
himself,  as  I  am  often  led  to  do,  How  much,  after  all, 
are  we  Americans  to  be  congratulated  upon  having 
had  to  swallow  so  mild  a  dose  of  the  war?  It  is 
a  true  tale,  this  one,  not  a  tale  invented;  chiefly  in 
this  does  it  differ  from  those  narrations  of  spies, 
escapes,  and  alarms  which  fall  from  the  pen  of  fic- 
tion. 

The  young  soldier  who  chronicles  his  experience 
here  is  but  one  among  the  legion  of  the  living  to  whom 
suddenly  the  vision  of  life  became  a  vision  of  death. 
It  chanced  that  he  lived  to  tell  his  bit  of  disaster, 
peril,  and  reprieve.  Thousands  of  such  bits  will 
never  be  told,  even  by  the  living.  Think  of  those 
which  some  of  the  dead  might  relate!  It  may  be 
that  we  owe  the  existence  of  this  one  to  the  young 
soldier's  resourceful  use  of  his  watch-chain  during 


20362 


VI 


PREFACE 


those  days  of  solitary  confinement.  He  might  have 
got  off  with  his  life,  but  it  may  well  be  that  his 
reason  for  a  while  hung  on  that  watch-chain. 

Is  it  indiscreet  to  offer  the  opinion  that  the  coun- 
tenance wherewith  Nature  endowed  Captain  Francis 
Yeats-Brown  is  not  at  all  like  his  photographs  in 
male  and  female  disguise?  As  a  make-up  he  is  a 
pronounced  success.  This  I  put  to  the  test  by  lay- 
ing these  photographs  before  shrewd  observers  of 
various  ages  and  both  sexes.  Not  a  shrewd  observer 
of  them  all  suspected  the  truth,  though  they  were  filled 
with  other  suspicion:  their  prompt  silences  made  that 
plain. 

"Say  anything  you  like,"  I  urged;  "neither  one 
is  a  relation." 

Nothing  complimentary  resulted.  Whatever  the 
specific  comment  or  guess  as  to  age,  occupation,  otf 
character,  shady  was  what  it  came  to,  both  as  to  him 
and  as  to  her.  One  observer,  mature  and  very 
shrewd,  allotted  various  possible  professions,  his- 
trionic and  financial,  to  the  young  man;  and  brains, 
but  not  heart;  and  he  was  the  sort  to  go  off  with  wives 
not  his  own.  As  to  the  age  of  the  woman,  she  might 
be  young.  She  had  seen  life.  It  had  not  softened 
her.  She  would  get  back  at  life  if  she  could.  Both 
were  Europeans. 

It  was  interesting  to  watch  observers  guess  at  these 
photographs,  and  to  notice  that,  all  in  all,  they  didn't 


PREFACE  vii 

fall  so  very  wide  of  the  author's  own  general  inten- 
tion in  his  make-ups:  a  Hungarian  mechanic,  taking 
his  Sunday  out,  might  be  far  from  loth  to  taking  it 
with  a  wife  not  his  own;  and  a  German  governess 
could  have  seen  almost  everything  and  intend  almost 
anything.  Let  us  hope  that  Captain  Francis  Yeats- 
Brown  intends  to  write  more  books. 

No  man  saw  the  war  as  a  whole,  no  man  could. 
History  will.  History  will  look  at  all  such  books  as 
this.  From  these,  from  the  picture  of  what  all  their 
authors  saw,  what  they  enjoyed,  suffered,  confronted, 
endured,  escaped,  history  will  eventually  construct 
the  huge  pattern  that  now  stretches  so  wide  beyond  all 
living  sight. 

OWEN  WISTER. 
Philadelphia, 

October  11,  1919. 


CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 
CHAPTER  I 

CAPTURE 

HALF  an  hour  before  dawn  on  November  the  thir- 
teenth, 1915.  .  .  . 

We  were  on  an  aerodrome  by  the  river  Tigris, 
below  Baghdad,  about  to  start  on  a  "stunt"  behind 
the  Turkish  lines. 

My  pilot  ran  his  engine  to  free  the  cylinders  from 
the  cold  of  night,  while  I  stowed  away  in  the  body 
of  the  machine  some  necklaces  of  gun-cotton,  some 
wire  cutters,  a  rifle,  Very  lights,  provisions,  and  the 
specially  prepared  map — prepared  for  the  eventu- 
ality of  its  falling  into  the  hands  of  the  Turks — on 
which  nothing  was  traced  except  our  intended  route 
to  the  telegraph  lines  west  and  north  of  Baghdad. 
Some  primers,  which  are  the  explosive  charges  de- 
signed to  detonate  the  gun-cotton,  I  carefully  stowed 
away  in  another  part  of  the  machine,  and  with  even 
more  care — trepidation  indeed — I  put  into  my  pockets 
the  highly  explosive  pencils  of  fulminate  of  mercury, 
which  detonate  the  primers  which  detonate  the  gun- 
cotton. 


2  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

Then  I  climbed  gingerly  aboard,  feeling  rather 
highly  charged  with  explosives  and  excitement. 

For  some  time  the  pilot  continued  to  run  his  engine 
and  watch  the  revolution  metre.  The  warmer  the  en- 
gine became,  the  colder  I  got,  for  the  prelude  to  ad- 
venture is  always  a  chilly  business.  Unlike  the  en- 
gine, I  did  not  warm  to  my  work  during  those  waiting 
moments.  At  last,  however,  the  pilot  waved  his  hand 
to  give  the  signal  to  stand  clear,  and  we  slid  away  on 
the  flight  that  was  to  be  our  last  for  many  a  day.  The 
exhaust  gases  of  our  engine  lit  the  darkness  behind  me 
with  a  ring  of  fire.  I  looked  back  as  we  taxied  down 
the  aerodrome  and  saw  the  mechanics  melting  away  to 
their  morning  tea.  Only  one  figure  remained,  a 
young  pilot  in  a  black  and  yellow  fur  coat,  who  had 
left  his  warm  bed  to  wish  us  luck.  For  a  moment  I 
saw  him  standing  there,  framed  in  flame,  looking  after 
us  regretfully.  Then  I  saw  him  no  more  and  later 
they  told  me  (but  it  was  not  true)  that  he  had  died  at 
Ctesiphon. 

We  rose  over  the  tents  of  our  camp  at  Aziziah,  all 
silver  and  still  in  the  half-light,  and  headed  for  the 
Turkish  outposts  at  El  Kutunieh.  Their  bivouac  fires 
mounted  straight  to  heaven.  It  was  a  calm  and  cloud- 
less dawn,  ideal  weather  for  the  business  we  had  been 
sent  out  to  do. 

At  all  costs,  we  had  been  told,  the  telegraphic  com- 
munications west  and  north  of  Baghdad  must  be  cut 


CAPTURE  3 

that  day.  Von  der  Goltz  and  a  German  battery  of 
quick-firing  guns  were  hasting  down  from  Mosul  to 
help  their  stricken  ally  and  reinforcements  of  the  best 
Anatolian  troops,  magnificently  equipped  and  organ- 
ised by  the  Germans,  were  on  their  way  from  Gal- 
lipoli,  whence  they  came  flushed  with  the  confidence 
of  success. 

Our  attack  on  Ctesiphon  was  imminent.  It  was  a 
matter  of  moments  whether  the  Turkish  reinforce- 
ments would  arrive  in  time.  Delay  and  confusion  in 
the  Turkish  rear  would  have  helped  us  greatly,  and  the 
moral  and  material  advantage  of  cutting  communica- 
tions between  Nur-ed-Din,  the  vacillating  Commander- 
in-Chief  defending  Baghdad,  and  Von  der  Goltz,  the 
veteran  of  victories,  was  obvious  and  unquestionable. 
But  could  we  do  it  in  an  old  Maurice  Farman  biplane? 

Desperate  needs  need  desperate  measures.  The 
attempt  to  take  Baghdad  was  desperate — futile  per- 
haps— and  contrary  to  the  advice  of  the  great  soldier 
who  led  the  attack  in  the  glorious  but  unsuccessful  ac- 
tion of  Ctesiphon.  And  so  also,  in  a  small  way,  ours 
was  a  desperate  mission.  Our  machine  could  carry 
neither  oil  nor  petrol  enough  for  the  journey  and 
special  arrangements  had  to  be  made  for  carrying 
spare  tins  of  lubricant  and  fuel.  With  these  we 
were  to  re-fill  at  our  first  halt.  While  I  was  destroy- 
ing the  telegraph  line,  my  pilot  was  to  replenish  the 
tanks  of  his  machine.  According  to  the  map  this 


4  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

should  have  been  feasible,  for  the  telegraph  lines  at 
the  place  we  had  selected  for  our  demolition  ran 
through  a  blank  desert,  two  miles  from  the  nearest 
track.  That  the  map  was  wrong  we  did  not  know. 

All  seemed  quite  hopeful  therefore.  We  had  got 
off  "according  to  plan,"  and  the  engine  was  running 
beautifully. 

It  was  stimulating  to  see  the  stir  at  El  Kutunieh 
as  we  sailed  over  the  Turks  at  a  thousand  feet.  They 
ran  to  take  cover  from  the  bombs  which  had  so  often 
greeted  them  at  sunrise,  but  for  once  we  sailed 
placidly  on,  having  other  fish  to  fry,  and  left  them 
to  the  pleasures  of  anticipation.  Far  behind  us  a 
few  puffs  from  their  ridiculous  apology  for  an  anti- 
aircraft gun  blossomed  like  sudden  flowers  and  then 
melted  in  the  sunlight  above  the  world.  Below,  in 
the  desert,  it  was  still  dark.  Men  were  rubbing  their 
eyes  in  El  Kutunieh  and  cursing  us. 

But  for  us  day  had  dawned.  As  we  rose,  there 
rose  behind  us  a  round,  cheerful  sun,  whose  rays 
caught  our  tail  and  spangled  it  with  light  and  danced 
in  my  eyes  as  I  looked  back  through  the  propeller, 
and  lit  up  the  celluloid  floor  of  the  nacelle  as  if  to 
help  me  see  my  implements.  That  dawn  was  jubilant 
with  hope — I  felt  inclined  to  dance.  And  I  sang 
from  sheer  exhilaration — a  sort  of  swan  song  as  I 
see  it  now  before  captivity.  The  desert  seemed  bar- 
ren no  longer.  Transmuted  by  the  sunrise,  those 


CAPTURE  5 

"miles  and  miles  of  nothing  at  all"  became  a  limit- 
less expanse  where  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  were 
spread  out  before  our  eyes.  Away  to  the  east  the 
Tigris  wound  like  a  snake  among  the  sands;  to  west- 
ward, a  huddle  of  houses  and  date-palms  with  an  oc- 
casional gleam  from  the  gold  domes  of  Kazimain, 
lay  the  city  of  the  Arabian  Nights,  where  Haroun  al 
Raschid  once  reigned,  and  where  there  is  now  hope 
his  spirit  may  reign  again.  Baghdad  nestled  among 
its  date-palms,  with  little  wisps  of  cloud  still  shroud- 
ing its  sleep,  all  unconscious  of  the  great  demonstra- 
tion it  was  to  give  before  noon  to  two  forlorn  and 
captive  airmen.  To  the  north  lay  the  Great  Desert 
with  a  hint  of  violet  hills  on  the  far  horizon.  To  the 
south  also  lay  the  Great  Desert,  with  no  feature  on 
its  yellow  face  save  the  scar  of  some  irrigation  cut 
made  in  the  twilight  time  of  history. 

But  the  beauties  of  Nature  were  not  for  us:  we 
were  intent  on  the  works  of  man.  There  was  un- 
wonted traffic  across  the  bridge  over  the  great  arch 
of  Ctesiphon.  The  enemy  river  craft  were  early 
astir,  and  so  were  their  antediluvian  Archies.  These 
latter  troubled  us  no  more  than  was  their  wont,  but 
the  activity  at  Qusaibah  and  Suleiman  Pak  was  dis- 
quieting. Trains  of  carts  were  moving  across  the 
river  from  the  right  to  the  left  bank.  Tugs,  gravid 
with  troops,  were  on  their  way  from  Baghdad.  In 
trenches  and  gun  emplacements  feverish  work  was 


6  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

in  progress.  Like  ants  at  a  burrow,  men  were  drag- 
ging overhead  cover  into  place.  Lines  of  fatigue 
parties  were  marching  hither  and  thither.  New  sup- 
port trenches  were  being  dug. 

As  always,  when  one  saw  these  things,  one  longed 
for  more  eyes,  better  eyes,  an  abler  pencil,  to  record 
them  for  our  staff.  An  observer  has  great  respon- 
sibilities at  times:  he  cannot  help  remembering  that 
a  missed  obstruction,  a  forgotten  emplacement,  may 
mean  a  terrible  toll  of  suffering.  Our  men  would 
soon  attack  these  trenches,  relying  largely  on  our 
photographs  and  information.  .  .  .  When,  a  week 
later,  there  rose  above  the  battle  the  souls  of  all  the 
brave  men  dead  at  Ctesiphon,  seeing  then  with  clearer 
eyes  than  mine,  I  pray  they  forgave  our  shortcom- 
ings and  remembered  we  did  our  best. 

We  could  not  circle  over  Ctesiphon,  in  spite  of  the 
interest  we  saw  there,  until  our  duty  was  performed, 
and  had  to  fly  on,  leaving  it  to  eastward. 

On  the  return  journey,  however,  we  promised  our- 
selves as  full  an  investigation  as  our  petrol  supply 
allowed,  and  had  we  returned  with  our  report  on  what 
we  had  seen  and  done  that  day,  things  might  have 
been  very  different.  But  what's  the  use  of  might- 
have-beens? 

After  an  hour's  flying  we  sighted  the  telegraph 
line  that  was  our  objective,  but  when  we  approached 
it  more  closely  a  sad  surprise  awaited  us,  for  instead 


CAPTURE  7 

of  the  blank  surface  which  the  map  portrayed,  we 
found  that  the  line  ran  along  a  busy  thoroughfare 
leading  to  Baghdad.  Some  ten  thousand  camels,  it 
seemed  to  my  disappointed  eyes,  were  swaying  and 
slouching  towards  the  markets  of  the  capital.  We 
came  low  to  observe  the  traffic  better,  and  the  camels 
craned  their  long  necks  upwards,  burbling  with  sur- 
prise at  this  great  new  bird  they  had  never  seen.  The 
ships  of  the  desert,  it  seemed  to  me,  disliked  the  ship 
of  the  air  as  much  as  we  disapproved  of  them. 

Besides  the  camels,  there  were  ammunition  carts 
and  armed  soldiers  along  the  road,  making  a  land- 
ing impossible.  Our  demolition  would  only  take 
three  minutes  under  favourable  conditions,  but  in 
three  minutes  even  an  Arab  soldier  can  be  trusted 
to  hit  an  aeroplane  and  two  airmen  at  point-blank 
range. 

So  we  flew  westward  down  the  road,  looking  for  a 
landing  ground.  Baghdad  was  behind  us  now.  On 
our  right  lay  a  great  lake  and  ahead  we  got  an  oc- 
casional glimpse  of  the  Euphrates  in  the  morning 
sun.  At  last — near  a  mound,  which  we  afterwards 
heard  was  Nimrod's  tomb — we  saw  that  the  telegraph 
line  took  a  turn  to  northward,  leaving  the  road  by 
a  mile  or  more.  Here  we  decided  to  land.  Nimrod's 
tomb  was  to  be  the  tomb  of  our  activities. 

While  we  were  circling  down  I  felt  exactly  as  one 
feels  at  the  start  of  a  race,  watching  for  the  starting 


8  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

gate  to  rise.     It  was  a  tense  but  delightful  moment. 

We  made  a  perfect  landing  and  ran  straight  and 
evenly  towards  the  telegraph  posts.  I  had  already 
stripped  myself  of  my  coat  and  all  unnecessary  gear 
and  wore  sandshoes  in  case  I  had  to  climb  a  post  to 
get  at  the  insulators.  The  detonators  were  in  my 
pocket,  the  wire  clippers  hung  at  my  belt.  I  stooped 
down  to  take  a  necklace  of  gun-cotton  from  the  floor 
of  the  'bus,  and  as  I  did  so,  I  felt  a  slight  bump  and 
a  slight  splintering  of  wood. 

We  had  stopped. 

I  jumped  out  of  the  machine,  still  sure  that  all  was 
well.  And  then — 

Then  I  saw  that  our  left  wing  tip  had  crashed  into 
a  telegraph  post.  Even  so  the  full  extent  of  our  dis- 
aster dawned  slowly  on  me.  I  could  not  believe 
that  we  had  broken  something  vital.  Yet  the  pilot 
was  quite  sure. 

The  leading  edge  of  the  plane  was  broken.  Our 
flying  days  were  finished.  It  had  been  my  pilot's 
misfortune,  far  more  than  his  fault,  that  we  had 
crashed.  The  unexpected  smoothness  of  the  landing 
ground,  and  a  rear  wind  that  no  one  could  have  fore- 
seen, had  brought  about  disaster.  Nothing  could  be 
done.  I  stood  silent — while  hope  sank  from  its 
zenith  to  the  nadir  of  disappointment.  Nothing  re- 
mained— except  to  do  our  job. 

With  light  feet  but  heart  of  lead,  I  ran  across  to 


CAPTURE  9 

another  telegraph  post,  leaving  the  pilot  to  ascertain 
whether  by  some  miracle  we  might  not  be  able  to 
get  our  machine  to  safety.  But  even  as  I  left  him  I 
knew  that  there  was  no  hope;  the  only  thing  that  re- 
mained was  to  destroy  the  line  and  then  take  our 
chance  with  the  Arabs. 

By  the  time  I  had  fixed  the  explosive  necklace  round 
the  post,  a  few  stray  Arabs,  who  had  been  watching 
our  descent,  fired  at  us  from  horseback.  I  set  the 
fuse  and  lit  it,  then  strolled  back  to  the  machine, 
where  the  pilot  confirmed  my  worst  fears.  The  ma- 
chine was  unflyable. 

Presently  there  was  a  loud  bang.  The  charge  had 
done  its  work  and  the  post  was  neatly  cut  in  two. 

Horsemen  were  now  appearing  from  the  four 
quarters  of  the  desert.  On  hearing  the  explosion 
the  mounted  men  instantly  wheeled  about  and  galloped 
off  in  the  opposite  direction,  while  those  on  foot  took 
cover,  lying  flat  on  their  faces.  To  encourage  the 
belief  in  our  aggressive  force,  the  pilot  stood  on  the 
seat  of  the  'bus  and  treated  them  to  several  bursts 
of  rapid  fire. 

Meanwhile,  I  took  another  necklace  of  gun-cot- 
ton and  returned  to  my  demolition.  This  second 
charge  I  affixed  to  the  wires  and  insulators  of  the 
fallen  post,  so  as  to  render  repair  more  difficult. 
While  I  was  thus  engaged,  I  noticed  that  spurts  of 
sand  were  kicking  up  all  about  me.  The  fire  had  in- 


10  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

creased  in  accuracy  and  intensity.  So  accurate  in- 
deed had  it  become  that  I  guessed  that  the  Arabs 
(who  cannot  hit  a  haystack)  had  been  reinforced  by 
regulars.  I  lit  the  fuse  and  covered  the  hundred 
yards  back  to  the  machine  in  my  very  best  time  (which 
is  about  fifteen  seconds)  to  get  cover  and  compan- 
ionship. A  hot  fire  was  being  directed  onto  the  ma- 
chine now,  at  ranges  varying  from  fifty  to  five  hun- 
dred yards.  It  was  not  a  pleasant  situation  and  I 
experienced  a  curious  mixed  feeling  of  regret  and 
relief:  regret  that  there  was  nothing  more  to  do,  re- 
lief that  something  at  least  had  been  accomplished 
to  earn  the  long  repose  before  us.  On  the  nature  of 
this  repose  I  had  never  speculated,  and  even  now  the 
fate  that  awaited  us  seemed  immaterial  so  long  as 
something  happened  quickly.  One  wanted  to  get  it 
over.  I  was  very  frightened,  I  suppose. 

Bang! 

The  second  charge  had  exploded,  and  the  telegraph 
wires  whipped  back  and  festooned  themselves  round 
our  machine.  The  insulators  were  dust,  no  doubt, 
and  the  damage  would  probably  take  some  days  to 
repair.  So  far  so  good.  Our  job  was  done  in  so 
far  as  it  lay  in  our  power  to  do  it. 

"Do  you  see  that  fellow  in  blue?"  said  the  pilot 
to  me,  pointing  to  a  ferocious  individual  about  a 
hundred  yards  away  who  was  brandishing  a  curved 
cutlass.  "I  think  it  must  be  an  officer.  We  had 


CAPTURE  11 

better  give  ourselves  up  to  him  when  the  time 
comes." 

I  cordially  agreed,  but  rather  doubted  that  the  time 
would  ever  come.  It  speaks  volumes  for  Arab  marks- 
manship that  they  missed  our  machine  about  as  often 
as  they  hit  it. 

I  destroyed  a  few  private  papers,  and  then,  as  it 
was  obviously  useless  to  return  the  fire  of  two  hun- 
dred men  with  a  single  rifle,  we  started  up  the  en- 
gine again,  more  with  the  idea  of  doing  something 
than  with  any  hope  of  getting  away. 

The  machine,  it  may  be  mentioned,  was  not  to  be 
destroyed  in  the  event  of  a  breakdown  such  as  this, 
because  our  army  hoped  to  be  in  Baghdad  within  a 
week,  and  it  would  have  been  impossible  for  the  Turks 
to  carry  it  with  them  in  the  case  of  a  retreat. 

The  Arabs  hesitated  to  advance  and  still  continued 
to  pour  in  a  hot  fire.  Feeling  the  situation  was  be- 
coming ridiculous,  I  got  into  the  aeroplane  and  de- 
termined to  attempt  flying  it.  Now  I  am  not  a  pilot 
and  know  little  of  machines.  The  pilot  had  pro- 
nounced the  aeroplane  to  be  unflyable,  and  very 
rightly  did  not  accompany  me. 

But  I  was  pigheaded  and  determined  "to  have  one 
more  flip  in  the  old  'bus."  After  disentangling  the 
wires  that  had  whipped  round  the  king  posts,  I  got  into 
the  pilot's  seat  and  taxied  away  down  wind.  Then  I 
turned,  managing  the  operation  with  fair  success,  and 


12  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

skimmed  back  towards  the  pilot  with  greatly  increas- 
ing speed.  But  all  my  efforts  did  not  succeed  in 
making  the  machine  lift  clear  of  the  ground.  Some 
Arabs  were  now  rushing  towards  the  pilot,  and  a 
troop  of  mounted  gendarmes  were  galloping  in  my 
direction.  I  tried  to  swerve  to  avoid  these  men,  but 
could  not  make  the  machine  answer  to  her  controls. 
Then  I  pulled  the  stick  back  frantically  in  a  last 
effort  to  rise  above  them.  She  gave  a  little  hop, 
then  floundered  down  in  the  middle  of  the  cavalry. 

Somehow  or  other  the  engine  had  stopped. 

I  jumped  out  intending  to  make  towards  the  pilot. 
Mounted  gendarmes  surrounded  me  with  rifles 
levelled,  not  at  me,  but  at  the  machine.  I  cocked  my 
revolver  and  put  it  behind  my  back,  hesitating.  Then 
an  old  gendarme  spurred  his  horse  up  to  me  and  held 
out  his  right  hand  in  the  friendliest  possible  fashion. 
I  grasped  it  in  surprise,  for  the  grip  he  gave  me  was 
a  grip  I  knew,  proving  that  even  here  in  the  desert 
men  are  sometimes  brothers.  After  emptying  out  the 
cartridges  from  my  revolver  in  case  of  accidents,  I 
handed  it  to  him.  Not  very  heroic  certainly — but 
then  surrendering  is  a  sorry  business:  the  best  that 
can  be  said  for  it  is  that  it  is  sometimes  common- 
sense. 

At  that  moment  the  gentleman  in  blue,  whose  ap- 
pearance we  had  previously  discussed,  suddenly  ap- 
peared behind  me  and,  swinging  up  his  scimitar  with 


CAPTURE  13 

both  hands,  struck  me  a  violent  blow  where  neck  joins 
shoulder.  This  blow  deprived  me  of  all  feeling  for 
a  moment.  On  coming  to  I  discovered  that  my  ag- 
gressor was  not  dressed  in  blue  at  all:  he  wore  no 
stitch  of  raiment  of  any  description,  but  whether  he 
was  painted  with  woad  or  only  tanned  by  the  sun  I 
had  no  opportunity  of  enquiring.  I  think,  however, 
he  was  painted,  like  the  fakirs  at  Benares.  Whether, 
again,  the  kindly  gendarme  had  turned  the  blow  or 
whether  the  ghazi  had  purposely  hit  me  with  the  flat 
of  his  weapon,  I  never  discovered,  but  of  this  much 
I  am  certain,  that  except  for  that  kindly  gendarme — 
may  Allah  bring  him  increase! — this  story  would  not 
have  been  written. 

I  made  my  way  to  the  pilot  as  soon  as  I  was  able 
to  do  so  and  found  him  bleeding  profusely  from  a 
wound  in  the  head,  surrounded  by  a  hundred  tear- 
ing, screaming  Arabs.  Every  minute  the  number  of 
the  Arabs  was  increasing  and  the  gendarmes  had  the 
greatest  difficulty  in  protecting  us.  All  round  us  ex- 
cited horsemen  circled,  firing  feux  de  joie  and  utter- 
ing hoarse  cries  of  exultation.  We  were  making  slow 
progress  towards  the  police  post  about  a  mile  distant, 
but  at  times,  so  fiercely  did  the  throng  press  round 
us,  I  doubted  if  we  should  ever  come  through. 

Once,  yielding  to  popular  clamour,  the  police 
stopped  and  parleyed  with  some  Arab  chiefs  who  had 
arrived  upon  the  scene.  After  a  heated  colloquy  of 


14  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

which  we  did  not  understand  one  word,  in  spite  of 
our  not  unnatural  interest,  the  Turkish  gendarmes 
shrugged  their  shoulders  and  appeared  to  accede  to 
the  Arabs'  demands.  Several  of  the  more  ruffianly 
among  them  seized  the  pilot  and  pulled  his  flying 
coat  over  his  head.  The  memory  of  that  moment  is 
the  most  unpleasant  in  my  life  and  I  cannot,  try  as  I 
will,  entirely  dissociate  myself  from  the  horror  of 
what  I  thought  would  happen.  Even  now  it  often 
holds  sleep  at  arm's  length.  Not  the  fact  of  death, 
but  the  imagined  manner  of  it  dismayed  me.  I  bit- 
terly regretted  having  surrendered  my  revolver  only 
to  be  thus  tamely  murdered. 

Meanwhile  I  had  been  also  seized  and  borne  down 
under  a  crowd  of  Arabs.  We  fought  for  some  time, 
and  I  had  a  glimpse  of  the  pilot,  who  is  a  very  clever 
boxer,  upholding  British  traditions  with  his  fists.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  the  scene  changed  from  tragedy  to 
farce.  We  were  not  going  to  be  murdered  at  all, 
but  only  robbed.  And  the  pilot  had  given  our  ghazi 
friend  a  black  eye — blacker  than  his  skin. 

At  length  I  got  free,  minus  all  my  possessions  ex- 
cept my  wrist  watch  which  they  did  not  see,  and  saw 
that  the  pilot  also  had  his  head  above  the  scrimmage, 
still  "bloody  but  unbowed."  The  worst  was  over. 
That  had  been  the  climax  of  my  capture.  All  that 
happened  thereafter,  until  chances  of  escape  occurred, 
was  in  a  diminuendo  of  emotion. 


CAPTURE  15 

All  I  really  longed  for  now  was  for  something  to 
smoke.  My  cigarette  case  had  gone. 

The  gendarmes,  who  had  stood  aside  through  these 
proceedings,  now  returned  and  hurried  us  towards 
the  police  post,  while  the  most  of  our  captors  re- 
mained behind  disputing  about  our  loot.  All  this 
time  the  machine  had  been  absolutely  neglected,  but 
now  I  saw  some  Arabs  stalking  cautiously  up  to  it  and 
discharging  their  firearms.  Feeling  the  machine 
would  be  damaged  beyond  repair  if  they  continued 
firing  at  it,  and  so  useless  after  our  imminent  capture 
of  Baghdad,  I  tried  to  explain  to  the  gendarmes  that 
it  was  quite  unnecessary  to  waste  good  lead  on  it,  its 
potentiality  for  evil  having  vanished  with  our  sur- 
render. The  impression  I  conveyed,  however,  was 
that  there  was  a  third  officer  in  the  machine  and  a 
large  party  adjourned  to  investigate.  During  this 
diversion  I  tried  to  jump  on  to  a  white  mare,  whose 
owner  had  left  her  to  go  towards  the  machine,  but  re: 
ceived  a  second  nasty  blow  on  the  spine  for  my  pains. 
Again  the  kindly  gendarme  came  to  my  rescue,  seeing, 
I  suppose,  that  I  was  looking  pretty  blue.  He  ad- 
dressed me  as  "Baba,"  and — may  Allah  give  him  in- 
crease!— gave  me  a  cigarette. 

At  last  we  got  to  the  police  post  and,  as  we  en- 
tered and  passed  through  a  dark  stable  passage,  the 
gendarme  on  my  left  side,  noticing  my  wrist  watch, 
slyly  detached  it  and  pocketed  it  with  a  meaning 


16  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

smile.  As  the  price  of  police  protection  I  did  not 
grudge  it. 

Big  doors  clanged  behind  us  and  our  captivity 
proper  had  begun:  what  had  gone  before  had  been 
more  like  a  scrum  at  Rugger,  with  ourselves  as  the 
ball. 

We  examined  our  injuries  and  bruises  and  I  tried 
to  dress  the  wounds  on  the  pilot's  head,  with  little 
success,  however,  for  our  guardians  could  provide 
nothing  but  the  most  brackish  water,  and  disinfectants 
were  undreamed  of.  We  discussed  our  future  at  some 
length  and  agreed  that  our  best  plan  was  to  be  re- 
captured in  Baghdad  on  the  taking  of  that  city.  To 
this  end  we  decided  that  it  would  be  advisable  to 
make  the  most  of  our  injuries,  so  that  when  the  Turk- 
ish retreat  took  place  we  would  not  be  in  fit  condition 
to  accompany  them.  To  feign  this  indeed  would  not 
be  difficult.  I  felt  that  every  bone  in  my  body  was 
broken  and  my  pilot  was  in  an  even  worse  condition. 

Meanwhile  there  was  a  great  clamour  and  "con- 
fused noises  without,"  which  seemed  to  refer  insist- 
ently and  unpleasantly  to  us.  On  asking  what  the 
people  were  saying  we  were  informed  that  the  Arabs 
wanted  to  take  our  heads  to  the  Turkish  Commander- 
in-Chief  at  Suleiman  Pak,  whereas  the  gendarmes 
pointed  out  that  there  would  be  far  greater  profit  and 
pleasure  in  taking  us  there  alive.  We  cordially 
agreed  and  did  not  join  the  discussion,  feeling  it  to 


CAPTURE  17 

be  more  academic  than  practical,  as  we  were  quite 
safe  in  the  police  post. 

We  had  neither  hats  nor  overcoats,  but  we  each 
still  retained  our  jackets  and  breeches  though  in  a 
very  torn  condition.  My  pilot  had  lost  his  boots 
but  I  was  still  in  possession  of  my  sandshoes,  prob- 
ably because  the  Arabs  did  not  think  them  worth  the 
taking.  Considering  things  calmly  we  felt  that  we 
were  lucky.  This  bondage  would  not  last.  We 
would  surely  fly  again,  perhaps  soon.  But  for  a 
week  or  so  we  must  accustom  ourselves  to  new  con- 
ditions. Everything  was  strange  about  us  and  it 
struck  me  at  once  how  close  a  parallel  there  is  be- 
tween the  drama  of  Captivity  and  the  drama  of  Life; 
in  each  case  there  is  a  "curtain,"  and  in  each  case 
one  enters  into  a  new  world  whose  language  and  cus- 
toms one  does  not  know.  Almost  naked  we  came  to 
our  bondage,  dumb,  bloody,  disconcerted  by  the  whole 
business.  So,  perhaps,  does  an  infant  feel  at  the 
world  awaiting  its  ken.  We  take  it  for  granted  that 
it  enjoys  life,  and  so  also  our  captors  were  convinced 
that  we  should  feel  delighted  at  our  situation. 

"We  saved  you  from  the  Arabs,"  we  understood 
them  to  say,  "and  now  you  are  safe  until  the  war 
is  over.  You  need  do  no  more  work." 

Such  at  any  rate  was  my  estimate  of  what  they 
said,  but  being  in  an  unknown  tongue,  it  was  only 
necessary  to  nod  in  answer. 


18  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

Tea  was  brought  to  us,  sweet,  weak  tea  in  little 
glasses,  and  we  made  appreciative  noises.  Then  the 
kindly  gendarme — may  he  be  rewarded  in  both 
worlds! — brought  each  of  us  some  cigarettes,  in  re- 
turn for  which  we  gave  him  our  brightest  smiles,  hav- 
ing nothing  else  to  give. 

But  one  could  not  smile  for  long  in  that  little  room, 
thinking  of  the  sun  and  air  outside  and  the  old  'bus 
lying  wrecked  in  the  desert.  We  would  have  been 
flying  back  now;  we  would  have  reconnoitred  the 
Turkish  lines;  we  would  have  been  back  by  nine 
o'clock  to  breakfast,  bath,  and  glory.  .  .  . 

"It's  the  thirteenth  of  the  month,"  groaned  the 
pilot,  whose  thoughts  were  similar  to  mine. 

For  a  long  time  I  sulked  in  silence,  while  the  pilot, 
with  better  manners  or  more  vitality  than  I,  engaged 
the  gendarmes  in  light  conversation,  conducted  chiefly 
by  gesture.  About  an  hour  later  (a  day  of  the  Crea- 
tion, it  seemed  to  me — and  it  was  indeed  a  formative 
time,  when  the  mind,  so  long  accustomed  to  range 
free,  seeks  to  adjust  its  processes  to  captivity  and 
adapt  itself  to  new  conditions  of  time  and  space)  there 
occurred  at  last  a  diversion  to  interrupt  my  gloom. 

The  Turkish  district  governor  arrived  with  two 
carriages  to  take  us  to  Baghdad.  He  spoke  English 
and  was  agreeable  in  a  mild  sort  of  way  except  for 
his  unfortunate  habit  of  asking  questions  which  we 
could  not  answer.  He  told  us  that  news  of  our  de- 


CAPTURE  19 

scent  and  capture  had  been  sent  to  Baghdad  by 
gallopers  (not  by  telegram,  I  noted  parenthetically) 
and  that  the  population  was  awaiting  our  arrival.  I 
remarked  that  I  hoped  the  population  would  not  be 
disappointed  and  he  assured  us  with  a  significant  smile 
that  they  certainly  would  not. 

"Whatever  happens,"  he  was  kind  enough  to  add, 
"I  will  be  responsible  for  your  lives  myself." 

His  meaning  became  apparent  a  little  later,  when 
we  approached  the  suburbs  of  Baghdad  and  found  an 
ugly  crowd  awaiting  our  arrival,  armed  with  sticks 
and  stones.  When  we  reached  the  city  itself  the 
streets  were  lined  as  if  for  a  royal  procession.  Shops 
had  put  up  their  shutters,  the  markets  were  closed, 
the  streets  were  thronged,  and  every  window  held  its 
quota  of  heads.  The  word  had  gone  out  that  there 
was  to  be  a  demonstration,  and  the  hysteria  which 
lurks  in  every  city  in  a  time  of  crisis  found  its  fullest 
scope.  Our  downfall  was  taken  as  an  omen  of  Brit- 
ish defeat  and  the  inhabitants  of  Baghdad  held  high 
holiday  at  the  sight  of  captive  British  airmen. 

Elderly  merchants  wagged  their  white  beards  and 
cursed  us  as  we  passed,  children  danced  with  rage 
and  threw  mud,  lines  of  Turkish  women  pulled  back 
their  veils  in  scorn  and  putting  out  their  tongues  at 
us  cried,  "La,  la,  la,"  in  a  curious  note  of  derision, 
boys  brandished  knives,  babies  shook  their  little  fists. 
No  hated  Tarquins  could  have  had  a  more  hostile 


20  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

demonstration.  We  were  both  spat  upon.  A  man 
with  a  heavy  cudgel  aimed  a  blow  at  my  pilot  which 
narrowly  missed  him,  another  with  a  long  dagger 
stabbed  through  the  back  of  the  carriage  and  was 
dragged  away  with  difficulty:  I  can  still  see  his  snarl- 
ing face  and  hashish-haunted  eyes.  Our  escort  could 
hardly  force  a  way  for  our  carriage  through  the  nar- 
row streets.  All  this  time  we  sat  trying  to  look  digni- 
fied and  smoking  constantly  cigarettes.  .  .  .  State  ar- 
rival of  British  prisoners  in  Baghdad — what  a  scene 
it  would  have  been  for  the  cinematograph! 

Arrived  at  the  river,  a  space  was  cleared  round  us, 
and  we  were  embarked  with  a  great  deal  of  fuss  in 
a  boat  to  take  us  across  to  the  governor's  palace.  Be- 
fore leaving,  I  said  good-bye  to  the  kindly  gendarme 
who  had  helped  a  brother  in  distress,  and  once  more 
now,  across  the  wasted  years  of  captivity  and  the 
turmoil  of  my  life  to-day,  I  grasp  his  hand  in  grati- 
tude. 

Our  first  interview  in  Baghdad  was  with  a  journal- 
ist. He  was  very  polite  and  anxious  for  our  impres- 
sions, but  I  told  him  that  the  Arabs  had  given  us 
quite  enough  impressions  for  the  day  and  that  words 
could  not  adequately  express  what  we  felt  at  our  ar- 
rival in  Baghdad.  We  chiefly  wanted  a  wash. 

That  afternoon  we  were  taken  to  hospital  and  to 
our  surprise  (for  being  new  to  the  conditions  of 
captivity  we  were  still  susceptible  to  surprise)  we 


CAPTURE  21 

found  that  we  were  very  well  treated  there.  Two 
sentries,  however,  stood  at  our  open  door  day  and 
night  to  watch  our  every  movement.  When  the 
governor  of  Baghdad  came  to  see  us  that  evening 
(thoughtfully  bringing  with  him  a  bottle  of  whisky) 
I  politely  told  him  (in  French,  a  language  he  spoke 
fluently)  that  so  much  consideration  had  been  shown 
to  us  that  I  hoped  he  would  not  mind  my  asking 
whether  we  could  not  have  a  little  more  privacy.  The 
continual  presence  of  the  sentries  was  a  little  irk- 
some. He  understood  my  point  perfectly — much  too 
perfectly.  Taking  me  to  the  window  he  spoke 
smoothly  as  follows: 

"I  am  so  sorry  the  sentries  disturb  you,  but  I  feel 
responsible  for  your  safety  and  should  you  by  any 
chance  fall  out  of  that  window — it  is  not  so  very  far 
from  the  ground,  you  see — you  might  get  into  bad 
hands.  I  assure  you  that  Baghdad  is  full  of  wicked 
men." 

The  governor  was  too  clever.  There  was  no 
chance  with  him  of  securing  more  favourable  condi- 
tions for  escape,  so  we  turned  to  the  discussion  of 
the  whisky  bottle.  As  in  all  else  he  did,  he  had  an 
object,  I  soon  discovered,  in  bringing  this  forbidden 
fluid.  His  purpose,  of  course,  was  to  make  us  talk, 
and  talk  we  did,  under  its  generous  and  unaccustomed 
influence,  for  it  had  been  some  time  since  we  had 
seen  spirits  in  our  own  mess  at  Azizah.  I  would 


22  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

much  like  to  see  the  report  that  the  Turkish  Intelli- 
gence Staff  made  of  that  wonderful  conversation. 
Several  officers  had  dropped  in — casually — to  join 
in  the  talk  and  we  told  them  we  had  lost  our  way; 
then  our  engine  had  stopped  and  we  landed  as  near  to 
some  villages  as  we  oould.  We  knew  nothing  of  an 
attack  on  Baghdad,  we  did  not  know  General  Town- 
shend,  but  had  certainly  heard  of  him.  We  had 
heard  a  rumour  that  he  had  defeated  the  Turks  at 
Es-sinn  a  month  previously,  and  would  like  to  know 
the  truth  of  the  matter.  Eventually  the  bottle  was  ex- 
hausted and  so  were  our  imaginations.  We  parted 
with  the  utmost  cordiality  and  a  firm  intention  of  see- 
ing as  little  of  each  other  as  possible  in  the  future. 

In  the  street  below  our  window  were  some  large 
earthen-ware  jars,  like  those  in  which  the  Forty 
Thieves  had  hidden  aforetime  in  this  very  city,  and 
for  about  a  day  we  considered  the  story  of  Aladdin, 
with  reference  to  the  possibility  of  escape  by  getting 
into  these  jars,  but  just  as  we  had  made  our  plans, 
the  jars  were  removed,  being  taken,  no  doubt,  to  the 
support  trenches,  which  were  found  by  our  troops 
excellently  provided  with  water. 

As  the  day  grew  near  for  our  attack  we  saw  many 
thousand  Arabs  being  marched  down  to  Ctesiphon. 
It  was  no  conquering  army  this,  no  freemen  going  to 
defend  their  native  land,  but  miserable  bands  of 
slaves  being  sent  into  subjection.  Down  to  the  river- 


CAPTURE  23 

bank,  where  they  were  embarked  on  lighters,  they 
were  followed  by  their  weeping  relatives.  There  was 
no  pretence  at  heroism.  They  would  have  escaped  if 
they  could,  but  the  Turks  had  taken  care  of  that. 
They  were  tied  together  by  fours,  their  right  hand 
being  lashed  to  a  wooden  yoke,  while  their  left  was 
employed  in  carrying  a  rifle.  These  unfortunate 
creatures  were  taken  to  a  spot  near  the  trenches  and 
were  then  transferred,  still  securely  tied  together,  to 
the  worst-dug  and  most-exposed  part  of  the  line.  Ma- 
chine guns  were  then  posted  behind  them  to  block  all 
possible  lines  of  retreat.  In  addition  to  minor  dis- 
comforts such  as  bearing  the  brunt  of  our  attack,  the 
Arabs,  so  I  was  told,  were  frequently  unprovided  with 
provisions  and  water,  so  it  is  small  wonder  that  their 
demeanour  did  not  show  the  fire  of  battle.  But 
Kanonen- (utter  was  required  for  Ctesiphon,  and  down 
the  river  this  pageant  of  dejected  pacifists  had  to  go. 

After  the  attack  had  begun  shiploads  of  these  same 
men  returned  wounded  and  arrived  in  our  hospital 
in  an  indescribably  pitiable  condition.  There  were 
no  stretchers  and  the  wounded  were  left  to  shift  for 
themselves,  relying  on  charity  and  the  providence  of 
Allah.  The  blind  led  the  blind,  the  halt  helped  the 
lame. 

Later,  wounded  Anatolian  soldiers  began  also  to 
arrive  and  their  plight  was  no  less  wretched  than 
that  of  the  Arabs,  though  their  behaviour  was  incom- 


24  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

parably  better.  One  could  not  help  admiring  their 
stoicism  in  the  face  of  terrible  and  often  unnecessary 
suffering.  The  utter  lack  of  system  in  dealing  with 
casualties  was  hardly  more  remarkable  than  the  for- 
titude of  the  casualties  themselves.  When  a  proc- 
lamation was  read  to  the  sufferers  in  our  hospital 
announcing  the  success  of  the  Turkish  arms  at 
Ctesiphon,  the  wounded  seemed  to  forget  their  pain 
and  the  dying  acquired  a  new  lease  of  life.  I  actu- 
ally saw  a  man  with  a  mortal  wound  in  the  head,  who 
a  few  minutes  previously  had  been  choking  and  liter- 
ally at  his  last  gasp,  rally  all  his  forces  to  utter  thanks 
to  God,  and  then  die. 

Never  for  a  moment  had  we  thought  that  the  at- 
tack on  Ctesiphon  could  fail.  The  odds,  we  knew, 
were  heavily  against  us,  but  we  firmly  believed  that 
General  Townshend  would  achieve  the  impossible. 
That  he  did  not  do  so  was  not  his  fault  nor  the  fault 
of  the  gallant  men  he  led.  But  this  is  a  record  of 
my  personal  experiences  only  and  I  will  spare  the 
reader  all  the  long  reflections  and  alternations  of 
anxiety  and  hope  which  held  our  thoughts  while  the 
guns  boomed  down  the  Tigris  and  the  fate  of  Bagh- 
dad— and  our  fate — was  poised  in  the  balance. 

At  six  o'clock  one  morning  we  were  suddenly 
awakened  and  told  that  we  must  leave  for  Mosul  im- 
mediately. By  every  possible  means  in  our  power 
we  delayed  the  start,  thinking  our  troops  might  come 


CAPTURE  25 

at  any  moment.  But  the  Turkish  sergeant  who  com- 
manded our  escort  had  definite  orders  that  we  were 
to  be  out  of  the  city  by  nine  o'clock.  We  drove  in  a 
carriage  through  mean  streets,  attracting  no  attention, 
for  now  the  Baghdadis  realised  their  danger.  Before 
leaving,  our  sergeant  paid  a  visit  to  his  house  in  or- 
der to  collect  his  kit,  leaving  us  at  the  door,  guarded 
by  four  soldiers.  His  sisters  came  down  to  see  him 
off  and  (being  of  progressive  tendencies,  I  suppose) 
they  were  not  veiled.  It  were  crime,  indeed,  to  have 
hidden  such  lustrous  eyes  and  skin  so  fair. 


CHAPTER  II 

A   SHADOW-LAND   OF   ARABESQUES 

SOME  breath  of  reality,  some  call  from  the  outer 
world  of  freedom,  came  to  us  from  their  presence. 
They  seemed  the  first  real  people  I  had  seen  in  my 
captivity,  femininity  incarnate,  human  beings  in  a 
shadow-land  of  arabesques.  They  were  happy  and 
healthy  and  somehow  outside  the  hideous  comedy  and 
tragedy  of  war.  For  a  moment  they  gazed  at  us  in 
awe,  and  for  another  moment  in  complete  sympathy; 
then  they  retired  with  little  squeaks  of  laughter  and 
busied  themselves  with  their  brother's  baggage. 

When  our  preparations  were  complete  and  we  set 
off  on  our  long  journey,  they  stood  for  a  moment  in 
the  casement  window  and  waved  us  good-bye,  look- 
ing quite  charming.  I  vowed  that  if  Fate  by  a  happy 
chance  were  to  lead  us  back  to  Baghdad  with  roles  re- 
versed, so  that  they,  not  we,  were  captives  in  the  midst 
of  foes,  my  first  care  would  be  to  repay  their  kindly, 
though  unspoken,  sympathy.  They  were  too  human 
for  the  futilities  of  war,  too  amiable  to  have  a  hand 
in  Armageddon. 

Only  prisoners,  I  think,  see  the  full  absurdity  of 

26 


A  SHADOW-LAND  OF  ARABESQUES     27 

war.  Only  prisoners,  to  begin  with,  fully  realise 
the  gift  of  life.  And  only  prisoners  see  war  with- 
out its  glamour,  and  realise  completely  the  suffering 
behind  the  lines:  the  maimed,  the  blind,  the  women 
who  weep.  Only  by  a  few  of  us  in  happy  England 
has  the  full  tragedy  of  war  been  realised.  Mere 
words  will  never  record  it,  but  prisoners  know  "the 
heartbreak  in  the  heart  of  things."  To  us  who  have 
been  behind  the  scenes,  in  a  way  the  protagonists 
in  trench  and  factory  could  never  be,  the  wretched- 
ness of  it  all  remains  indelible.  No  victory  parades 
can  make  us  forget  those  other  parades  of  broken 
men  and  women,  whose  woes  will  haunt  our  times. 

But  I  was  on  the  threshold  of  my  experiences  then, 
and  the  maidens  of  Baghdad  soon  passed  from  mem- 
ory, I  fear — vanishing  like  the  mists  of  morning  that 
hung  over  the  river-bank  at  the  outset  of  our  journey. 

We  travelled  in  that  marvellous  conveyance,  the 
araba.  To  generalise  from  types  is  dangerous,  but 
the  araba  is  certainly  typical  of  Turkey.  Its  discom- 
fort is  as  amazing  as  its  endurance.  It  is  a  ricketty 
cart  with  a  mattress  to  sit  on.  A  pole  (frequently 
held  together  by  string)  to  which  two  ponies  are  har- 
nessed (frequently  again  with  string)  supplies  the 
motive  power,  which  is  restrained  by  reins  mended 
with  string,  or  encouraged  by  a  whip  made  of  string. 
The  contrivance  is  surmounted  by  a  patchwork  hood 
tied  down  with  string.  A  few  buckets  and  hay  nets 


28  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

are  strung  between  its  crazy  wheels.  Such  is  the 
araba.  How  it  holds  together  is  a  mystery  as  in- 
scrutable as  the  East  itself.  If  all  the  vitality  ex- 
pended in  Turkey  on  starting  upon  a  journey  and 
continuing  upon  it  were  turned  to  other  purposes,  the 
land  might  flourish.  But  the  philosophy  which  makes 
the  araba  possible  makes  other  activities  impos- 
sible. 

A  full  two  hours  before  the  start,  when  the  world 
is  still  blue  with  cold,  travellers  are  summoned  to 
leave  their  rest.  Then  the  drivers  start  to  feed  their 
ponies.  When  this  is  done  they  feed  themselves. 
Then  leisurely  they  load  the  baggage.  Finally,  when 
all  seems  ready,  it  occurs  to  somebody  that  it  is  im- 
possible to  leave  before  the  cavalry  escort  is  in  sad- 
dle. "Ahmed  EfFendi"  is  called  for.  Everyone 
shouts  for  "Ahmed  EfFendi,"  who  is  sleeping  soundly, 
like  a  sensible  man.  He  wakes,  and,  to  create  a 
diversion,  perhaps,  accuses  a  driver  of  stealing  his 
chicken.  The  driver  replies  in  suitable  language. 
Meanwhile  time  passes.  The  disc  of  the  sun  cuts  the 
hard  horizon  line  of  the  desert,  disclosing  us  all  stand- 
ing chill  and  cramped  and  bored  and  still  unready. 

A  pony  has  lain  down  in  his  harness,  in  an  access 
of  boredom,  no  doubt.  A  goat  has  stolen  part  of  my 
scanty  bread  ration  and  is  now  browsing  peacefully 
in  the  middle  distance.  Far  away  a  cur  is  barking 
at  the  jackals.  Some  of  our  escort  have  retired  to 


A  SHADOW-LAND  OF  ARABESQUES     29 

pray,  others  are  still  wrangling.  Two  or  three  are 
engaged  in  kicking  the  bored  pony.  After  recovering 
my  half  loaf,  which  is  so  much  better  than  no  bread 
in  the  desert,  I  watch  with  amazement  the  Turkish 
treatment  of  the  pony.  A  skewer  is  produced  and 
rammed  into  the  unfortunate  animal's  left  nostril.  So 
barbarous  did  this  seem  that  I  was  on  the  point  of 
protesting,  when  I  saw  the  animal  struggle  to  its  feet 
and  stand  shivering  and  wide-eyed.  After  the  wound 
had  been  sponged  and  it  had  been  given  a  few  dates, 
the  animal  seemed  equal  to  fresh  endeavour.  The 
blood-letting  had  cleared  its  brain — and  no  wonder, 
poor  beast. 

At  length  all  seems  ready.  We  climb  into  the 
or  aba.  But  we  are  not  off  yet.  We  sit  for  another 
hour  while  the  drivers  refresh  themselves  with  a 
second  breakfast.  A  rhyme  keeps  running  through 
my  frozen  brain: — 

"Slow   pass  the  hours — ah,   passing   slow — 
My  doom  is  worse  than  anything 
Conceived  by  Edgar  Allan  Poe."  .  .  . 

But  I  did  not  realise  then  how  lucky  we  were  to  be 
travelling  by  carriages  at  all.  Nor  did  I  realise  what 
an  honour  it  was  to  be  presented  to  the  local  gover- 
nors through  whose  districts  we  passed.  It  was  only 
late  in  captivity,  when  merged  in  an  undistinguished 
band  of  prisoners,  that  I  understood  the  pomp  and  cir- 


30  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

cumstance  of  our  early  days.  Late  in  1915  a  pris- 
oner was  still  a  new  sort  of  animal  to  the  Turks. 
They  were  curious  about  us,  and  to  some  extent  the 
curiosity  was  mutual.  One  kept  comparing  them 
with  the  descriptions  in  Eothen. 

Proceedings  generally  opened  in  a  long,  low  room. 
The  local  magnate  sat  at  a  desk,  on  which  were  set 
a  saucer  containing  an  inky  sponge,  a  dish  of  sand, 
and  some  reed  pens.  A  scribe  stood  beside  the 
kaimakam  and  handed  him  documents,  which  he 
scrutinised  as  if  they  were  works  of  art,  holding  them 
delicately  in  his  left  hand  as  a  connoisseur  might  con- 
sider his  porcelain.  Then  with  a  reed  pen  he  would 
scratch  the  document,  still  holding  it  in  the  palm  of 
his  hand,  and  after  sprinkling  it  carefully  with  sand 
would  return  it  to  the  scribe.  All  this  was  incidental 
to  his  conversation  with  us  or  with  other  members  of 
the  audience.  There  were  never  less  than  ten  people 
in  any  of  the  rooms  in  which  we  were  interviewed, 
and  as  they  all  made  fragmentary  remarks,  one  quot- 
ing a  text  from  the  Koran,  another  a  French  bon  mot, 
and  a  third  introducing  some  question  of  local  politics, 
and  as  the  governor  asked  us  questions  and  signed 
papers  and  kept  up  a  running  commentary  with  his 
friends,  one  felt  exactly  like  Alice  at  the  Hatter's  tea 
party. 

"A  Turk  does  not  listen  to  what  you  are  saying,"  I 
have  since  been  told;  "he  me'rely  watches  your  ex- 


A  SHADOW-LAND  OF  ARABESQUES     31 

pression."  That  this  is  true  of  the  uneducated,  I  have 
no  doubt,  and  if  correct  about  the  educated  Turk  I 
daresay  it  is  not  to  his  discredit.  Demeanour  in 
oriental  countries  counts  for  much. 

But  at  Samarra  our  demeanour  was  sorely  tried. 
We  had  been  travelling  about  three  days  in  the  desert, 
when  we  arrived  at  this  desolate  and  dishevelled  spot. 
I  longed  to  lie  down  and  shut  my  eyes,  and  forget 
about  captivity  for  a  bit,  but  no! — there  came  a  sum- 
mons to  attend  the  ghastly  social  function  I  had  al- 
ready learned  to  loathe. 

The  governor  of  that  place  was  a  tout  a  fait  civilise 
Young  Turk,  sedentary,  Semitic,  and  very  disagree- 
able. 

"Is  it  true  that  you  dropped  bombs  on  the  mosque 
at  Baghdad?"  he  asked;  and  "Do  you  know  that  the 
population  of  Baghdad  nearly  killed  you?";  and  "Do 
you  know  that  in  another  month  the  English  will  be 
driven  into  the  Persian  Gulf?"  .  .  .  and  so  on. 

We  denied  these  soft  impeachments,  and  then  his 
method  became  more  direct. 

"Some  of  your  friends  have  been  killed  and  cap- 
tured, I  think,"  he  said — "the  commandant  of  your 
flying  corps,  for  instance." 

Seeing  us  incredulous,  he  accurately  described  the 
major's  appearance. 

"And  there  is  someone  else,"  the  kaimakan  con- 
tinued in  slow  tones  that  iced  my  blood.  "Someone 


32  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

who  may  be  a  friend  of  yours.  A  young  pilot  in  a 
fur  coat." 

My  heart  stood  still. 

"He  was  killed  by  an  Arab,"  the  kaimakam 
added.  .  .  . 

Here  I  will  skip  a  page  or  two  of  mental  history. 
The  defeat  of  my  country,  the  death  of  my  friend, 
the  crumbling  of  my  hopes:  little  indeed  was 
left 

Let  five  dots  supply  the  ugly  blank.  There  is  sor- 
row and  failure  enough  in  the  world  without  speculat- 
ing on  tragedies  that  never  happened.  Baghdad  was 
taken  later,  my  friend  proved  to  be  captured,  not 
killed;  and  I  write  this  by  Thames-side,  not  the 
Tigris. 

The  inhabitants  of  Samarra  are,  I  believe,  the  most 
ill-balanced  people  in  the  world.  This  trait  is  well 
known  to  travellers,  and  we  found  it  no  traveller's 
tale.  On  first  arriving  at  this  insane  city,  we  halted 
in  the  rest-house  on  the  right  bank  of  the  river,  and 
were  enjoying  our  frugal  meal  of  bread  and  dates 
when  a  sergeant  came  to  us  from  the  governor  with 
orders  that  we  were  to  be  instantly  conveyed  to  his 
residence,  which  is  situated  in  the  town  across  the 
river.  We  demurred,  and  our  own  sergeant  pro- 
tested, but  the  governor's  emissary  had  definite  or- 
ders, and  we  were  hurried  down  in  the  twilight.  Here 
we  found  that  there  was  no  boat  to  take  us  across. 


A  SHADOW-LAND  OF  ARABESQUES      33 

The  Samarra  sergeant  shouted  to  a  boat  full  of 
Arabs,  floating  down  the  river,  but  they  would  not 
stop.  Louder  and  louder  he  shouted,  till  his  voice 
cracked  in  a  scream.  Growing  frantic  with  rage,  he 
fired  his  revolver  at  the  Arabs.  Of  course  he  missed 
them,  but  the  bullets,  ricochetting  in  the  water,  prob- 
ably found  a  billet  in  the  town  beyond.  The  Arab 
occupants  merely  laughed  in  their  beards.  We  also 
laughed.  Then  the  sergeant  declared  that  we  would 
have  to  swim,  and  we  urged  him  in  pantomime  to 
show  the  way. 

Eventually  he  spied  a  horse-barge  down  the  river, 
with  a  naked  boy  playing  beside  it.  Reloading  his 
revolver,  a  few  shots  in  his  direction  attracted  the 
lad's  attention.  Then  an  old  man  came  out  of  a  hut 
by  some  melon  beds,  to  see  who  was  firing  at  his  son. 

Another  shot  or  two  and  the  old  man  and  the  boy 
were  prevailed  upon  to  take  us  across.  We  had 
secured  our  transport  at  last,  and  the  whole  transac- 
tion seemed  (in  Samarra)  as  simple  as  hailing  a  taxi. 

I  bought  a  melon  from  the  boy,  and  he  snatched 
my  money  contemptuously.  To  take  things  without 
violence  is  a  sign  of  weakness  in  Samarra.  I  no- 
ticed afterwards  that  all  the  boys  and  girls  in  this 
happy  spot  were  fighting  each  other  or  engaged  in 
killing  something..  The  violence  of  youth  finds  its 
fullest  scope  here  and  it  is  radiantly  happy.  But  I 
do  not  think  that  there  are  any  good  Samarratans. 


34  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

After  the  interview  with  the  governor  already  men- 
tioned, which  ended  by  a  refusal  on  our  part  to  speak 
with  him  further,  we  were  sent  to  pass  the  night  in 
a  filthy  hovel,  whose  only  furniture  consisted  of  a 
bench  and  a  chair.  Our  sergeant  was  sitting  on  this 
chair  when  an  officer  rushed  in  and  jerked  it  from 
under  him,  leaving  him  on  the  floor.  As  a  conjuring 
trick  it  was  neat,  but  as  manners,  deplorable.  We 
were  glad  to  get  away  from  Samarra. 

Very  few  incidents  came  to  diversify  the  monotony 
of  our  desert  travel.  One  day,  however,  we  met  some 
Turkish  cavalry  going  down  to  the  siege  of  Kut. 
They  were  a  fine  body  of  troops,  a  little  under- 
mounted,  perhaps,  but  thoroughly  business-like. 
Their  officers  were  most  chivalrous  cavaliers.  Here 
in  the  desert,  where  luxuries  were  not  to  be  had  for 
money  or  for  murder,  they  frequently  gave  us  a  hand- 
ful of  cigarettes  or  a  parcel  of  raisins  or  else  halted 
their  squadron  and  asked  us  to  share  their  meal. 
With  these  men  one  felt  at  ease.  They  were  soldiers 
like  ourselves.  They  did  not  ask  awkward  questions 
and  were  told  no  lies.  I  remember  especially  one 
afternoon  in  the  Marble  Hills,  when  we  sat  in  a  ring, 
drinking  tea  and  smoking  cigarettes,  with  the  pano- 
rama of  the  desert  spread  out  before  us,  from  the 
southward  plains  of  Arabia  to  the  hills  of  the  devil 
worshippers,  misty  and  mysterious,  in  the  north.  We 
talked  about  horses  all  the  time.  A  modern  Isaiah 


A  SHADOW-LAND  OF  ARABESQUES     35 

delivered  himself  of  the  following  sentiment,  in  which 
I  heartily  concur: 

"Where  there  is  no  racing  a  people  perish." 

The  first-line  Turk  has  many  fine  qualities,  of  which 
generosity  and  gallantry  are  not  the  least.  Some- 
thing in  Anglo-Saxon  blood  is  in  sympathy  with  the 
adventure-loving,  flower-loving  Turk.  But  alas,  there 
is  another  type  of  Ottoman,  with  the  taint  of  Tamer- 
lane. 

"When  he  is  good  he  is  very,  very  good,  but  when 
he  is  bad  he  is  horrid." 

In  the  latter  category  I  must  regretfully  place  the 
sergeant  who  commanded  our  escort.  He  came  of  de- 
cent stock  (to  judge  by  his  charming  sisters  and  his 
own  appearance  indeed)  but  his  mind  was  all  mud 
and  blood.  He  had  been  Hunified.  Turkey  would 
always  be  fighting,  he  said.  The  English  were  al- 
most defeated.  The  Armemians  were  almost  exter- 
minated. But  the  Greeks  remained  to  be  dealt  with, 
and  the  cursed  Arabs.  Finally,  the  Germans  them- 
selves. In  an  apotheosis  of  Prussianism,  Turkey  was 
to  turn  on  her  allies  and  drive  them  out.  Such  was 
his  creed.  But  a  glow  of  courage  lit  the  dark  places 
of  his  mind.  He  loved  fighting  for  the  sheer  fun  of 
the  thing.  A  few  days  beyond  Samarra  we  were  at- 
tacked by  some  wandering  Arabs,  who  swept  down 
on  us  in  a  crescent.  Our  guards  panicked,  but  he 
stood  his  ground,  and,  seizing  a  rifle,  dispersed  the 


36  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

enemy  by  some  well-directed  shots.  Whether  we 
were  near  deliverance  or  death  on  that  occasion  I  do 
not  know,  but  that  the  panic  amongst  our  escort  was 
not  wholly  unreasonable  was  evinced  by  the  fact  that 
only  a  few  hours  earlier  we  had  passed  the  headless 
trunk  of  a  gendarme,  strapped  upon  a  donkey.  He 
had  been  decapitated  as  a  warning  to  the  Samarratans 
that  two  can  play  at  the  game  of  savagery. 

The  sight  of  the  corpse  had  unnerved  our  guard, 
and  as  for  myself,  I  did  not  know  whether  to  be  glad 
or  sorry  when  the  Arabs  attacked  us.  To  be  taken 
by  them  meant  either  going  back  to  the  English  or 
to  the  dust  from  which  we  came.  The  alternative  was 
too  heroic  to  be  agreeable.  Contrariwise,  I  was  much 
disappointed  when  our  sergeant  finally  drove  them 
off.  That  evening,  as  if  to  point  the  moral,  we  found 
the  body  of  another  gendarme,  also  murdered,  lying 
on  a  dung-heap  outside  the  rest-house.  This  was  at 
Shergat,  the  former  capital  of  the  Assyrians,  and  now 
a  squalid  village,  where,  however,  the  "widows  of 
Ashur"  were  still  "loud  in  their  wail." 

Here  we  dined  with  the  fattest  man  I  have  ever 
seen.  He  was  really  a  pig  personified,  but  as  we  both 
gobbled  out  of  the  same  dish  and  ate  the  same  salt, 
I  will  not  further  enlarge  on  his  appearance. 

In  the  upper  reaches  of  the  Tigris  there  are  wild 
geese  so  tame  that  they  come  waddling  up  to  inspect 
the  rare  travellers  through  their  land.  I  thought  it 


A  SHADOW-LAND  OF  ARABESQUES     37 

might  be  possible  to  catch  one  of  these  animals  on 
foot.  Coquettishly  enough  they  kept  a  certain  dis- 
tance. "We  don't  mind  your  looking  at  us,"  they 
seemed  to  say,  "but  we  do  object  to  being  pawed 
about."  With  the  coming  of  the  railway  I  am  afraid 
a  gun  will  destroy  their  belief  in  human  kind. 

The  geese  appeared  to  enjoy  the  smell  of  sul- 
phuretted hydrogen,  which  prevails  in  these  regions. 
The  whole  country  is  rich  in  natural  oils  and  bitumen. 
One  day  it  will  make  somebody's  fortune,  no  doubt, 
and  then  the  geese  will  waddle  away  from  perspiring 
prospectors.  .  .  . 

Before  we  arrived  at  Mosul  we  stopped  for  a  bath 
at  the  hot  springs  of  Hammam-Ali,  where  we  met 
(in  the  water)  a  patriarch  with  a  white  beard,  who 
confidently  assured  us  that  he  was  a  hundred  years 
old  and  would  continue  to  live  for  another  hundred, 
such  were  the  beneficent  properties  of  the  water. 
Before  his  days  are  numbered  he  may  live  to  see  a 
Hydro  at  Hammam-Ali — poor  old  patriarch.  He 
told  us  a  lot  about  Jonah  (whose  tomb  is  at  Nineveh, 
just  opposite  Mosul,  on  the  other  side  of  the  river) 
and  I  am  not  sure  that  he  did  not  claim  acquaintance 
with  that  patriarch.  He  was  quite  one  of  the  family. 

Mosul,  he  told  us,  was  a  heaven  on  earth,  a  land 
flowing  with  milk  and  honey,  where  we  should  ride  all 
day  on  the  best  horses  of  Arabia,  and  feast  all  night 
in  gardens  such  as  the  blessed  houris  might  adorn. 


38  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

It  was  with  a  certain  elation,  therefore,  that  I  saw 
the  distant  prospect  of  Mosul  next  morning,  set  in 
its  surrounding  hills.  A  fair  city  it  seemed,  white 
and  cool,  with  orange  groves  down  to  the  river,  and 
many  date  trees.  But  a  closer  acquaintance  brought 
cruel  disappointment,  as  generally  happens  in  the 
East.  The  blight  of  the  Ottoman  was  everywhere; 
there  was  dirt,  decrepitude,  and  decay  in  every  cor- 
ner. Children  with  eye-disease  and  adults  with 
leprosies  more  terrible  than  Naaman's  jostled  each 
other  in  the  mean  streets.  Whole  quarters  of  the  city 
had  given  up  the  ghost  and  become  refuse-heaps, 
where  curs  grouted  amongst  offal.  Mosul,  like  our 
escort-sergeant's  mind,  seemed  a  muddle  of  mud  and 
blood. 

With  sinking  hearts  we  drove  to  the  barracks  and 
were  shown  into  a  dark,  gloomy  office,  where  our 
names  were  taken.  Thence  we  were  led  to  a  still 
murkier  and  more  mouldering  room,  inhabited — nay, 
infested — by  some  ten  Arabs.  Through  this  we 
passed  into  a  cell  with  windows  boarded  up,  which 
was,  if  possible,  even  damper,  darker,  and  more  dis- 
mal than  anything  we  had  yet  seen.  After  the  sun- 
light and  great  winds  of  the  desert  we  stood  bewil- 
dered. Death  seemed  in  the  air. 

Then  out  of  the  gloom  there  rose  two  figures. 
They  were  British  officers,  who  had  been  captured 
about  a  month  previously.  So  changed  and  wasted 


A  SHADOW-LAND  OF  ARABESQUES      39 

were  they  that  even  after  we  had  removed  the  boards 
from  the  little  window  we  could  hardly  recognise 
them.  One  of  these  officers  was  so  ill  with  dysentery 
that  he  could  hardly  move,  the  other  had  high  fever. 

Our  arrival  with  news  from  the  outer  world,  bad 
though  it  was,  naturally  cheered  them  considerably, 
for  nothing  could  be  worse  than  their  present  plight. 

The  ensuing  days  called  for  a  great  moral  effort 
on  our  part.  It  was  absolutely  imperative  to  laugh, 
otherwise  our  surroundings  would  have  closed  in  on 
us.  ...  We  cut  up  lids  of  cigarette  boxes  for  play- 
ing cards.  We  inked  out  a  chess  board  on  a  plank. 
We  held  a  spiritualistic  seance  with  a  soup  bowl, 
there  being  no  table  available  to  turn.  We  told 
interminable  stories.  We  composed  monstrous  limer- 
icks, and  we  sang  in  rivalry  with  the  Arab  guards  out- 
side, who  made  day  hideous  with  their  melody  and 
murdered  sleep  by  snoring. 

But  when  there  is  little  to  eat  and  nothing  to  do, 
time  drags  heavily.  Two  cells  with  low  ceilings  that 
leaked  were  allotted  to  the  four  of  us.  In  these  we 
lived  and  ate  and  slept,  except  for  fortnightly  excur- 
sions to  the  baths.  We  were  allowed  no  communica- 
tion with  the  men,  who  lived  in  a  dungeon  below. 
Their  fate  was  a  sealed  book  to  us.  We  had  nothing 
to  read.  Under  these  conditions  one  begins  to  fear 
one's  brain,  especially  at  night.  It  was  then  that  it 
began  to  run  like  a  mechanical  toy.  Like  a  clock- 


40  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

work  mouse,  it  scampered  aimlessly  amongst  the  dust 
of  memory,  then  suddenly  became  inert,  with  the 
works  run  down.  I  grew  terrified  of  thinking,  es- 
pecially of  thinking  about  my  friend  in  the  fur  coat. 

The  night  hours  are  the  worst  in  captivity.  One 
lies  on  the  floor,  waiting  for  sleep  to  come,  but  in- 
stead of  blessed  sleep,  "beloved  from  Pole  to  Pole," 
thoughts  come  crowding  thick  and  fast  on  conscious- 
ness, thoughts  like  clouds  that  lower  over  the  quies- 
cent body.  Each  second  then  seems  of  inconceivable 
duration.  But  there  is  no  escape  from  Time. 

During  the  day,  however,  things  were  more  bear- 
able, and  occasional  gleams  of  humour  enlivened 
that  dismal  time. 

Among  our  guard  there  were  several  sentries  who, 
I  thought,  might  conceivably  help  us  to  escape.  One 
dark  night  one  of  these  men  whispered  the  one  word 
"Jesus,"  and  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  as  I  passed 
him.  After  this  introduction  I  naturally  hoped  that 
he  might  be  of  use.  He  was  a  fine  figure  of  a  man, 
with  a  proud  poise  of  head  and  aquiline  nose,  as  if 
some  Assyrian  god  had  been  his  ancestor.  I  was 
gazing  at  him  in  admiration  the  next  day  and  gaug- 
ing his  possibilities  through  my  single  eye-glass,  when 
a  curious  thing  happened. 

Our  eyes  met.  He  seemed  mesmerised  by  my 
monocle.  For  a  long  time  we  stared  at  each  other 
in  silence,  then,  thinking  the  sergeant  of  the  guard 


A  SHADOW-LAND  OF  ARABESQUES     41 

would  notice  our  behaviour,  I  discreetly  dropped  my 
eye-glass  and  looked  the  other  way.  The  sentry's 
mouth  quivered  as  if  I  had  made  a  joke,  but  instead 
of  smiling,  he  burst  suddenly  into  a  storm  of  tears. 
The  sergeant  of  the  guard  (a  swart,  sturdy  little  Turk) 
rushed  out  to  see  what  was  the  matter.  There  stood 
the  big  sentry,  wailing,  and  actually  gnashing  his 
white  teeth.  I  stood  awkwardly,  looking  as  innocent 
as  I  felt.  The  sergeant  bristled  like  a  terrier,  pulled 
his  poor  nose,  and  boxed  his  beautiful  ears,  while  the 
sentry  continued  to  blubber  and  look  piteously  in  my 
direction. 

But  I  could  not  help  him  at  all.  I  had  not  the 
slightest  idea  what  was  the  matter,  nor  do  I  know 
now.  It  was  hysteria,  I  suppose. 

Eventually  that  great  solvent  of  perplexity,  nico- 
tine, came  to  relieve  the  awkward  situation.  First 
the  sergeant  accepted  a  cigarette,  then,  more  diffi- 
dently, the  sentry.  Later  I  put  in  my  eye-glass  again, 
and  convinced  them,  I  think,  that  its  use  did  not  in- 
volve the  weaving  of  any  unholy  spell. 

This  eye-glass,  by  the  way,  survived  all  the  fortunes 
of  captivity.  Through  it  I  surveyed  the  moon-lit 
plains  beyond  the  Tigris  when  I  planned  escape  in 
Mosul,  as  shall  be  told  in  the  next  chapter.  Later  it 
scanned  the  desert's  dusty  face  for  any  hope  of  re- 
lease. At  Afion-kara-hissar  it  helped  me  search  for 
a  pathway  through  our  guards.  At  Constantinople  it 


42  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

was  still  my  friend.  Through  it,  a  month  before  es- 
cape, I  looked  at  the  slip  of  new  moon  that  swung 
over  San  Sophia  on  the  last  day  of  Ramazan,  won- 
dering where  the  next  moon  would  find  me.  And 
when  the  next  moon  came,  I  watched  the  sentries  by 
its  aid  on  the  night  of  our  first  escape.  And  it  was 
in  my  eye  when  I  slipped  down  the  rope  to  freedom. 

But  this  chapter  is  getting  "gaga."  It  has  a  happy 
ending,  however. 

One  evening  when  the 

"Little  patch  of  blue 
That  prisoners  call  the  sky" 

had  turned  to  sulky  mauve,  and  the  air  was  heavy  with 
storm,  and  our  fellow-prisoners  were  depressed,  and 
the  Arab  guard  was  bellowing  songs  outside,  and  we 
were  peeling  potatoes  for  our  dinner  by  the  flicker 
of  lamp-light,  and  life  seemed  drab  beyond  descrip- 
tion, there  came  great  news  to  us.  Two  other  officers 
had  arrived. 

Next  moment  they  peered  into  our  den,  even  as  we 
had  done.  And  they  were  angry,  amazed,  unshaven, 
bronzed  by  the  desert  air,  even  as  we  had  been. 
There  in  the  doorway,  ruddy  and  fair  and  truculent 
like  some  Viking  out  of  time  and  place,  stood  the 
young  pilot  I  had  last  seen  at  Aziziah.  He  was  alive, 
my  friend  in  the  fur  coat. 

The  desert  had  delivered  up  its  dead! 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    TERRIBLE   TURK 

ONE  draws  a  long  breath  thinking  of  those  days  of 
Mosul.  But  bad  as  our  case  was,  it  was  as  nothing 
compared  with  that  of  the  men. 

Some  two  hundred  of  them  lived  in  a  cellar  below 
our  quarters,  through  scenes  of  misery,  and  in  an 
atmosphere  of  death  which  no  one  can  conceive  who 
does  not  know  the  methods  of  the  Turk.  Even  to  me, 
as  I  write  in  England,  that  Mosul  prison  begins  to 
seem  inconceivable.  Huddled  together  on  the  damp 
flag-stones  of  the  cellar,  our  men  died  at  the  rate  of 
four  or  five  a  week.  Although  the  majority  were 
suffering  from  dysentery  they  not  only  could  not 
secure  medical  attention,  but  were  not  even  allowed 
out  of  their  cells  for  any  purpose  whatever.  Their 
pitiable  state  can  be  better  imagined  than  described. 
Many  went  mad  under  our  eyes.  Deprived  of  food, 
light,  exercise,  and  sometimes  even  drinking  water, 
the  condition  of  our  sick  and  starving  men  was  liter- 
ally too  terrible  for  words. 

It  is  useless,  however,  to  pile  horror  on  horror. 

43 


44  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

Sixty-six  per  cent  of  these  men  are  dead,  and 
this  fact  speaks  for  itself.  No  re-statement  can 
strengthen,  and  no  excuse  can  palliate,  the  case 
against  the  Turks.  Our  men  were  killed  by  the  cyn- 
ical brutality  of  Abdul  Ghani  Bey,  the  commandant 
of  Mosul,  and  his  acquiescent  staff. 

There  is  an  idea  that  "the  Turks  treated  their  own 
soldiers  no  better  than  our  prisoners" — but  this  is  a 
fallacy — at  any  rate  with  regard  to  hell-hounds  such 
as  Abdul  Ghani  Bey.  He  took  an  especial  pleasure 
in  inflicting  the  torments  of  thirst,  hunger,  and  dirt 
upon  the  miserable  beings  under  his  care.  Animals, 
in  another  country,  would  have  been  kept  cleaner  and 
better  fed. 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  arrival  in  January,  1915, 
of  a  party  of  English  prisoners  from  Baghdad. 
About  two  hundred  and  fifty  men  who  had  been  cap- 
tured on  barges  just  before  the  siege  of  Kut  had 
been  taken  first  to  Baghdad  and  thence  by  forced 
marches  to  Kirkuk,  a  mountain  town  on  the  borders 
of  the  Turko-Persian  frontier.  Why  they  were  ever 
sent  to  Kirkuk  I  do  not  know,  unless  indeed  it  was 
thought  that  the  sight  of  prisoners  suitably  starved 
would  reassure  the  population  regarding  the  quali- 
ties of  the  redoubtable  English  soldier.  After  being 
exhibited  to  the  population  of  Kirkuk  our  men  con- 
tinued their  journey,  through  the  bitter  cold  of  the 
mountains,  barefoot  and  in  rags,  arriving  at  last  at 


THE  TERRIBLE  TURK  45 

Mosul  shortly  after  the  New  Year.  Only  eighty  men 
then  remained  out  of  the  original  two  hundred  and 
fifty,  but  although  their  numbers  had  dwindled  their 
courage  had  not  diminished. 

First  there  marched  into  our  barrack  square  some 
sixty  of  our  soldiers  in  column  of  route.  They  were 
erect  and  correct  as  if  they  were  marching  to  a  king's 
parade.  Surely  so  strange  a  column  will  never  be 
seen  again.  All  were  sick  and  the  most  were  sick  to 
death.  Some  were  barefoot,  some  had  marched  two 
hundred  miles  in  carpet  slippers,  some  were  in  shirt 
sleeves,  and  all  were  in  rags:  one  man  only  wore  a 
great  coat,  and  he  possessed  no  stitch  of  clothing  be- 
neath it.  But  through  all  adversity  they  held  their 
heads  high  among  the  heathen,  and  carried  themselves 
with  the  "courage  of  a  day  that  knows  not  death." 
Silently  they  filed  into  the  already  crowded  cellar, 
out  of  our  sight,  and  many  never  issued  again  into  the 
light  of  the  sun. 

After  these  sixty  men  had  disappeared  the  stragglers 
began  to  stagger  in.  One  man,  delirious,  led  a  don- 
key on  which  the  dead  body  of  his  friend  was  tied 
face  downwards.  After  unstrapping  the  corpse  he 
fell  in  a  heap  beside  it.  Dysentery  cases  wandered 
in  and  collapsed  in  groups  on  the  parade  ground. 
An  Indian  soldier,  who  had  contracted  lockjaw,  kept 
making  piteous  signs  to  his  mouth,  and  looking  up 
to  the  verandah  where  we  stood  surrounded  by  guards. 


46  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

But  no  one  came  to  relieve  those  sufferers,  dying  by 
inches  under  our  eyes. 

That  night  we  managed,  by  bribing  the  guards,  to 
have  smuggled  upstairs  to  us  at  tea-time  two  non- 
commissioned officers  from  among  the  new  arrivals. 
Needless  to  say,  we  spent  all  our  money  (which  was 
little  enough  in  all  conscience)  in  providing  as  good 
a  fare  as  possible,  and  our  famished  guests  devoured 
the  honey  and  clotted  cream  we  had  to  offer.  Then 
one  of  them  suddenly  fainted.  When  he  had  some- 
what recovered  he  had  to  be  secretly  conveyed  below, 
and  that  was  the  end  of  the  party — the  saddest  at 
which  I  have  ever  assisted.  The  officer  who  carried 
the  sick  man  down  spent  several  hours  afterwards  in 
removing  vermin  from  his  own  clothes,  for  lice  leave 
the  moribund,  and  this  poor  boy  died  within  a  few 
days. 

Sometimes,  when  our  pay  was  given  us,  or  there 
occurred  an  opportunity  to  bribe  our  guard,  it  was  our 
heart-breaking  duty  to  decide  which  of  the  men  we 
should  attempt  to  save  by  smuggling  money  to  them 
out  of  the  slender  funds  at  our  disposal,  and  which 
of  their  number,  from  cruel  necessity,  were  too  near 
their  end  to  warrant  an  attempt  to  save. 

Something  of  the  iron  of  Cromwell  enters  one's 
mind  as  one  writes  of  these  things.  If  we  forget  our 
dead  the  East  will  not  forget  our  shame.  Sentiment 
must  not  interfere  with  justice.  Abdul  Ghani  Bey, 


THE  TERRIBLE  TURK  47 

who  shed  our  prisoners'  blood,  must  pay  the  penalty. 
He  is  the  embodiment  of  a  certain  type — perhaps  not 
a  very  common  type — of  Turk,  but  common  or  not, 
he  is  one  of  the  men  responsible  for  the  terrible  death- 
rate  among  our  soldiers.  A  short  description  of  him, 
therefore,  will  not  be  out  of  place. 

He  was  a  small  man,  this  tiny  Tamerlane,  with  limp 
and  a  scowl  and  bandy  legs.  His  sombre,  wizened 
face  seemed  to  light  with  pleasure  at  scenes  of  cruelty 
and  despair.  He  insulted  the  old,  and  struck  the 
weak,  and  delighted  in  the  tears  of  women  and  the 
cries  of  children.  This  is  not  hyperbole.  I  have 
seen  him  stump  through  a  crowd  of  Armenian  widows 
and  their  offspring,  and  after  striking  some  with  his 
whip,  he  pushed  down  a  woman  into  the  gutter  who 
held  a  baby  at  her  breast.  I  have  seen  him  pass 
down  the  ranks  of  Arab  deserters,  lashing  one  in  the 
face,  kicking  another,  and  knocking  down  a  third.  I 
have  seen  him  wipe  his  boots  on  the  beard  of  an  old 
Arab  he  had  felled,  and  spur  him  in  the  face.  I 
hope  he  has  already  been  hung,  because  only  the 
hangman's  cord  could  remove  his  atavistic  cruelty. 

His  subordinates  went  in  deadly  fear  of  him  and, 
while  it  was  extremely  difficult  to  help  our  men,  it 
was  practically  impossible  to  help  ourselves  at  all  in 
the  matter  of  escape.  Yet  escape  was  doubly  urgent 
now  to  bring  news  of  our  condition  to  the  outer 
world. 


48  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

After  much  thought  I  decided  that  a  certain  wall- 
eyed interpreter  who  came  occasionally  to  buy  us 
food  was  the  most  promising  person  to  approach. 
My  friend  and  I  laid  our  plans  carefully.  After  a 
judicious  tip  and  some  hints  as  to  our  great  impor- 
tance in  our  own  country,  we  evinced  a  desire  to  have 
private  lessons  with  him  in  Arabic,  enlarging  at  the 
same  time  upon  the  great  career  that  a  person  like 
himself  might  have  had,  had  he  been  serving  the  Eng- 
lish and  not  the  Turks.  Gradually  we  led  round  to 
the  subject  of  escape.  At  first  we  talked  generalities 
in  whispers,  and  he  was  distinctly  shy  of  doing  any- 
thing of  which  the  dear  commandant  would  not  ap- 
prove; but  eventually,  softly  and  distinctly,  and  with 
a  confidence  that  I  did  not  feel,  I  made  a  momentous 
proposal  to  him,  nothing  less  than  that  he  should  help 
us  to  escape.  He  winced  as  if  my  remark  was  hardly 
proper,  and  fixed  me  with  a  single,  thunder-struck 
eye.  Then  he  quavered : 

"This  is  very  sudden!" 

We  could  not  help  laughing. 

"This  is  no  jesting  matter,"  he  said.  "I  will  be 
killed  if  I  am  caught." 

"But  you  won't  get  caught.  With  the  best  horses 
in  Arabia  and  a  guide  like  you  .  .  ." 

"Hush,  hush!     I  must  think  it  over." 

For  several  days  he  preserved  a  tantalising  silence, 
alternately  raising  our  hopes  by  a  wink  from  his  won- 


THE  TERRIBLE  TURK  49 

derful  eye,  and  then  dashing  them  to  the  ground  by 
a  blank  stare. 

We  lived  in  a  torment  of  hope  deferred. 

But  time  passed  more  easily  now.  The  nights  took 
on  a  new  complexion,  flushed  by  the  hope  of  freedom. 
From  our  little  window  I  could  see  across  a  courtyard 
to  a  patch  of  river.  Beyond  it,  immense  and  magical 
under  the  starlight,  were  the  ruins  of  former  civilisa- 
tion— the  mounds  of  Nineveh,  the  tomb  of  Jonah, 
and  the  rolling  downs  that  led  to  the  mountains  of 
Kurdistan.  To  those  mountains  my  fancy  went.  If 
sleep  did  not  come,  then  there  were  enthralling  ad- 
ventures to  be  lived  in  those  mountains.  Adventures 
of  the  texture  of  dreams,  yet  tinged  with  a  certain 
prospective  of  reality.  .  .  .  We  had  bought  re- 
volvers, our  horses  were  ready,  we  had  bribed  our 
guard.  We  rode  far  and  fast,  with  our  wall-eyed 
friend  as  guide.  By  evening  we  were  in  a  great 
forest.  .  .  . 

But  reality  proved  a  poor  attendant  on  romance. 
A  sordid  question  of  money  was  our  stumbling-block, 
and  a  high  enterprise  was  crippled — not  for  the  first 
or  last  time — by  want  of  cash.  We  had  already  given 
the  interpreter  five  pounds  (which  represented  so 
much  bread  taken  out  of  our  mouths),  but  now  he 
stated  that  further  funds  were  indispensable  to  ar- 
range preliminaries.  This  seemed  reasonable,  for 
arms  and  horses  could  not  be  secured  on  credit  in 


50  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

Mosul.  Unfortunately,  however,  funds  were  not 
available.  We  could  not,  in  decency,  borrow  from 
other  prisoners  to  help  us  in  our  escape.  At  this 
juncture  our  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend  lost — or 
embezzled — a  five-pound  note  that  had  been  entrusted 
to  him  by  another  prisoner  to  buy  us  food.  Whether 
he  lost  it  carelessly  or  criminally  I  am  not  prepared 
to  state,  but  the  fact  remains  he  lost  it.  The  other 
prisoner  very  naturally  complained  to  the  Turks,  as 
the  loss  of  this  five  pounds  meant  we  could  buy  no 
food  for  a  week. 

The  Turks  arrested  the  interpreter.  He  grew 
frightened,  invented  a  story  about  the  complainant 
having  asked  him  to  help  in  an  escape,  then  recanted, 
vacillated,  contradicted  himself,  and  got  himself 
bastinadoed  for  his  pains. 

The  bastinado,  I  may  as  well  here  explain,  is  ad- 
ministered as  follows:  the  feet  of  the  victim  are  bared, 
and  his  ankles  are  strapped  to  a  pole.  The  pole  is 
now  raised  by  two  men  to  the  height  of  their  shoul- 
ders. A  third  man  takes  a  thick  stick  about  the 
diameter  of  a  man's  wrist  and  strikes  him  on  the 
soles  of  the  feet.  Between  twenty  and  a  hundred 
strokes  are  administered  while  the  victim  writhes  until 
he  faints.  No  undue  exertion  is  necessary  on  the 
part  of  the  executioner,  for  even  after  a  gentle  bas- 
tinado a  man  is  not  expected  to  be  able  to  walk  for 
several  days. 


THE  TERRIBLE  TURK  51 

The  wall-eyed  interpreter  was  brought  limping  to 
our  cell  about  three  days  after  his  punishment.  He 
was  brought  by  Turkish  officers,  who  wished  to  hear 
from  our  own  lips  a  denial  of  his  story  that  we  had 
been  plotting  an  escape. 

It  was  a  dramatic,  and  for  me  rather  dreadful,  mo- 
ment. Indignantly  and  vehemently  we  denied  ever 
having  asked  his  help.  Only  myself  and  another, 
besides  the  interpreter,  knew  the  truth.  To  the  other 
officers  at  Mosul  (there  were  nine  of  us,  then,  sharing 
two  little  cells)  this  black  business  is  only  now  for 
the  first  time  -made  known.  Their  indignation,  there- 
fore, was  by  no  means  counterfeit. 

"The  man  must  be  mad.  No  one  ever  dreamed  of 
escaping,"  I  stated,  looking  fixedly  into  the  inter- 
preter's one  eye,  which,  while  it  implored  me  to  tell 
the  truth,  seemed  to  hold  a  certain  awe  for  a  liar 
greater  than  himself. 

"But — "  he  stammered,  cowed  by  the  circumstance 
that  for  once  in  his  life  he  was  telling  the  truth. 

"But  what?"  we  demanded  angrily.  "Let  the  vil- 
lain speak  out.  His  story  is  monstrous." 

"Besides,  we  are  so  comfortable  here,"  I  added 
parenthetically. 

Eventually  the  wretched  man  was  led  gibbering  to 
an  underground  dungeon.  What  happened  to  him 
afterwards  I  do  not  know.  I  publish  this  story  after 
careful  thought,  because,  if  he  was  "playing  the  game" 


52  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

by  us,  why  did  he  talk  to  the  Turks  about  escape? 
If,  on  the  other  hand,  he  was  a  prison  spy,  then  his 
punishment  is  not  my  affair. 

The  treachery  of  the  interpreter  was  an  ill  wind 
for  everyone,  for  our  guards  were  sent  away  to  the 
front  (which  is  tantamount  to  a  sentence  of  death)  and 
the  vigilance  of  our  new  guards  was  greater  than  that 
of  the  old.  Intrigue  was  dead,  and  our  isolation  com- 
plete. 

In  these  circumstances  it  may  be  imagined  with  what 
excitement  I  received  the  news  that  the  German  consul 
wanted  to  see  me  in  the  commandant's  office.  It  was 
the  first  time  for  a  fortnight  that  I  had  left  my  cell. 

I  entered  slowly,  and  after  saluting  the  company 
present,  first  generally,  and  then  individually,  I  took 
a  dignified  seat  after  the  manner  of  the  country. 
Ranged  round  the  room  were  various  notables  of 
Mosul,  doctors,  apothecaries,  priests,  and  lawyers. 
On  a  dais  slightly  above  us  sat  the  consul  and  the 
commandant.  For  some  time  we  kept  silence,  as  if 
to  mark  the  importance  of  the  occasion.  Then  a 
cigarette  was  offered  me  by  the  commandant.  I  re- 
fused the  Judas  offering,  rising  in  my  chair  and  salut- 
ing him  again. 

At  last  the  German  consul  spoke. 

He  had  been  instructed  by  telegraph,  he  told  me, 
to  pay  me  the  sum  of  five  hundred  marks  in  gold. 
The  money  came  from  a  friend  of  my  father's.  I 


THE  TERRIBLE  TURK  53 

begged  him  to  thank  the  generous  donor,  and  a  whole 
vista  of  possibilities  immediately  rose  to  my  mind. 

The  money  would  be  given  me  next  day,  the  consul 
continued,  and  a  kavass  of  the  Imperial  Government 
would  go  with  me  into  the  bazaar  to  make  any  pur- 
chases I  required. 

This  conversation  took  place  in  French,  a  language 
of  which  the  commandant  was  quite  ignorant,  and  I 
saw  that  here  was  an  ideal  opportunity  for  bringing 
the  plight  of  our  prisoners  to  light.  But  the  consul, 
I  gathered,  wanted  to  keep  on  friendly  terms  with 
the  Turks.  Some  of  the  things  I  told  him,  however, 
made  him  open  his  eyes,  and  may  have  made  his 
kultured  flesh  creep. 

"I  will  come  again  to-morrow,"  he  said  hurriedly; 
"you  can  tell  me  more  then." 

After  this  he  spoke  in  Turkish  at  some  length  to 
the  commandant,  while  the  latter  interjected  that  won- 
derful word  yok  at  intervals. 

Yok,  I  must  explain,  signifies  "No"  in  its  every 
variation,  and  is  one  of  the  most  popular  words  in 
Turkish.  It  is  crystallised  inhibition,  the  negation  of 
all  energy  and  enthusiasm,  the  motto  of  the  Ottoman 
Dilly  and  Dallys.  Its  only  rival  in  the  vocabulary  is 
yarin,  which  means  "to-morrow." 

"Yok,  yok,  yok,"  said  the  commandant,  and  I  gath- 
ered that  he  was  displeased. 

That  night  I  made  my  plans,  and  when  summoned 


54  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

to  the  office  next  day  I  was  armed  with  three  docu- 
ments. The  first  was  a  private  letter  of  thanks  to 
Baron  Mumm  for  his  generous  and  kindly  loan.  The 
second  was  a  suggestion  that  the  International  Red 
Cross  should  immediately  send  out  a  commission  to 
look  after  our  prisoners  at  Mosul.  And  the  third 
was  a  detailed  list  of  articles  required  by  our  men, 
with  appropriate  comments.  Items  such  as  this  fig- 
ured on  the  list: 

Soap  for  two  hundred  men,  as  they  have  been 
unable  to  wash  for  months. 

Kerosene  tins,  to  hold  water  which  is  denied  to  our 
prisoners. 

Blankets,  as  over  fifty  per  cent  have  no  covering  at 
all. 

These  screeds  startled  the  company  greatly.  The 
consul  stared  and  the  commandant  glared,  for  the 
one  hated  fuss,  and  the  other  hated  me.  I  was  de- 
lightfully unpopular,  but  when  an  ambassador  tele- 
graphs in  Turkey,  the  provinces  lend  a  respectful  ear. 
My  voice,  crying  in  the  wilderness,  must  needs  be 
heard. 

Summoning  an  interpreter,  the  commandant  de- 
manded whether  I  had  any  cause  for  complaint ;  where- 
upon the  following  curious  three-cornered  conversa- 
tion took  place — so  far  as  I  could  understand  the 
Turkish  part. 


THE  TERRIBLE  TURK  55 

"The  men  must  be  moved  to  better  quarters,"  said 
I;  "until  this  is  arranged  nothing  can  be  done." 

"He  says  nothing  can  be  done,"  echoed  the  inter- 
preter. 

"Then  of  what  does  he  complain?"  asked  the  com- 
mandant. 

"The  very  beasts  in  my  country  are  better  cared 
for,"  I  said.  "They  are  dying  of  hunger  and  cold." 

"He  says  the  men  might  be  better  cared  for.  They 
are  dying  of  cold,"  said  the  interpreter,  shivering 
at  his  temerity  in  mentioning  the  matter. 

"The  weather  is  not  my  fault,"  grumbled  the  com- 
mandant— "perhaps  it  will  be  better  to-morrow.  Yes, 
yarin" 

And  so  on.  Talk  was  hopeless,  but  before  leaving 
I  gave  the  German  consul  to  understand  that  he  now 
shared  with  Abdul  Ghani  Bey  the  responsibility  for 
our  treatment.  To  his  credit  be  it  said,  the  command- 
ant was  removed  shortly  after  our  departure. 

Two  days  after  this  interview  we  were  moved  from 
Mosul,  where  our  presence  was  becoming  irksome,  no 
doubt.  Before  leaving  I  left  all  my  fortunate  money, 
except  five  pounds  with  the  consul,  asking  him  to 
form  a  fund  (which  I  hoped  would  be  supplemented 
later  by  the  Red  Cross)  for  sick  prisoners.  Twelve 
months  later  this  money  was  returned  to  me  in  full, 
but  I  fancy  that  it  had  done  its  work  in  the  meanwhile. 


56  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

On  the  day  before  our  journey  I  went  shopping 
with  the  Imperial  kavass  aforesaid,  and  it  was  a  most 
pompous  and  pleasant  excursion.  Although  I  wore 
sandshoes  and  tattered  garments,  what  with  my  eye- 
glass and  the  gorgeous  German  individual,  dressed 
like  a  Bond  Street  commissionaire,  who  carried  my 
parcels  and  did  my  bargaining,  I  think  we  made  a 
great  impression  upon  the  good  burgesses  of  Mosul. 

We  threaded  our  way  among  Kurds  with  seven 
pistols  at  their  belts,  and  Arabs  hung  with  bandoliers, 
and  astonishing  Circassians  with  whiskers  and  swords. 
Almost  every  male  swaggered  about  heavily  armed, 
but  a  blow  on  their  bristling  midriff  would  have  stag- 
gered any  one  of  them.  Their  bark,  I  should  think, 
is  worse  than  their  bite. 

After  a  Turkish  bath,  where  I  graciously  enter- 
tained the  company  with  coffee,  we  strolled  round  to 
the  transport  square,  where  we  chaffered  hotly  for 
carriages  to  take  us  to  Aleppo. 

The  material  results  of  the  morning  were: 

Some  food  and  tobacco  for  the  men  staying  behind. 

Rations  for  ourselves,  consisting  of  an  amorphous 
mass  of  dates,  cigarettes,  conical  loaves  of  sugar, 
candles,  and  a  heap  of  unleavened  bread. 

Carriages  for  our  conveyance  to  Aleppo. 

But  the  moral  effect  of  our  excursion  was  greater 
far.  I  sowed  broadcast  the  seeds  of  disaffection  to 
Abdul  Ghani  Bey.  To  the  tobacconist  I  said  that  the 


THE  TERRIBLE  TURK  57 

English,  Germans,  Turks,  and  all  the  nations  of  the 
earth,  while  differing  in  other  matters,  had  agreed 
he  was  a  worm  to  be  crushed  under  the  heel  of  civili- 
sation. To  the  grocer  I  repeated  the  story.  To  the 
fruiterer  I  said  his  doom  was  nigh  and  to  the  baker 
and  candlestick  maker  that  his  hour  had  come. 

Everyone  agreed.  Conspuez  le  commandant,  was 
the  general  opinion. 

"In  good  old  Abdul  Hamid's  days,"  they  said, 
"such  devil's  spawn  would  not  have  been  allowed  to 
live." 

It  was  a  matter  of  minutes  before  rumours  of  his 
downfall  were  rife  throughout  the  city. 

Next  day  he  came  to  see  us  off,  bow-legs,  whip, 
and  scowl  and  all.  He  stood  stockily,  watching  us 
drive  off,  and  then  turned  and  spat.  But  the  taste 
of  us  was  not  to  be  thus  easily  dispelled.  He  will 
remember  us,  I  hope,  to  his  dying  day.  May  that  day 
be  soon. 


CHAPTER  IV 


WE  had  left  a  sad  party  of  prisoners  behind  us,  alas, 
but  we  had  done  what  little  we  could  for  them.  Con- 
fined as  we  had  been,  their  sufferings  had  only  added 
to  our  own.  The  best  hope  for  them  lay  in  the  Ger- 
man consul.  He  could  do  more,  if  he  wished,  than 
we  could  have  achieved  for  all  our  wishes.  Nothing 
could  have  been  more  hopeless  than  our  position  at 
Mosul.  But  now  at  least  there  was  the  open  road 
before  us,  and  hope,  and  health. 

The  desert  air  is  magnificent.  The  untamed  winds 
seemed  to  blow  through  every  fibre  of  one's  being, 
and  clear  away  the  cobwebs  of  captivity.  The  swing- 
ing sun,  the  great  spaces  of  sand,  the  continuous  ex- 
ercise, and  the  lean  diet  of  dates  and  bread  produce 
a  feeling  of  perfect  health.  Indeed,  after  a  day  or 
two  I  began  to  feel  much  too  well  to  be  a  prisoner. 
Under  the  desert  stars  one  thought  of  the  lights  of 
London.  Perversely,  instead  of  being  grateful  for 
the  unfettered  grandeur  of  one's  surroundings,  one 
thought  regretfully  of  the  crowded  hours  one  spends 
among  civilised  peoples.  And,  oh,  how  tired  I  was 

58 


"OUT  OF  GREAT  TRIBULATION  .  .  ."     59 

of  seeing  nothing  but  men!  One  of  the  worst  features 
of  captivity  is  that  it  is  generally  a  story  without  a 
heroine. 

After  the  second  day  of  travel  I  was  really  seriously 
in  need  of  a  heroine,  for  my  friend  had  developed 
high  f«rer.  If  only  there  had  been  a  ministering 
angel  among  our  party!  I  did  my  best,  but  am  not  a 
nurse  by  nature.  My  friend  grew  so  weak  that  he 
could  not  stand;  and  I  began  to  doubt  whether  he 
would  get  to  our  journey's  end. 

But  although  no  heroine  came  to  our  help,  a  hero 
did.  As  he  happens  to  be  a  Turk,  I  will  describe 
him  shortly.  Let  us  call  him  the  Boy  Scout,  for  he 
did  (not  one,  but  many)  good  actions  every  day.  Out 
of  his  valise  he  produced  a  phial  of  brandy,  tea, 
sugar,  raisins,  and  some  invaluable  medicines.  All 
these  he  pressed  us  to  accept.  He  even  tried  to  make 
me  believe  that  he  could  spare  a  box  of  Bir-inji  (first- 
class)  cigarettes,  until  I  discovered  he  had  no  more 
for  himself.  At  every  halting  place  he  went  to  search 
for  milk  for  my  friend.  Until  we  had  been  provided 
for,  he  never  attended  to  his  own  comforts.  After 
eighty  miles  of  travelling  everyone  is  tired,  but  al- 
though the  Boy  Scout  must  have  been  as  tired  as  any 
of  us,  for  he  rode  instead  of  driving;  and  although 
he  had  no  official  position  with  regard  to  us,  no  brother 
officer  could  have  been  more  helpful,  or  more  truly 
kind.  From  the  moment  of  our  meeting  we  had  been 


60  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

attracted  by  each  other.  At  times,  a  look  or  an  in- 
flection of  voice  will  proclaim  a  kindred  spirit  in  a 
perfect  stranger.  Something  happens  above  our  con- 
sciousness; soul  speaks  to  soul  perhaps.  So  it  was 
with  the  Boy  Scout.  He  was  unknown  to  me  when 
I  first  saw  him,  dark-eyed  and  graceful,  riding  a 
white  horse  like  a  prince  in  a  fairy-book,  and  we 
spoke  no  common  language,  but  somehow  we  under- 
stood each  other. 

He  was  a  high  official,  I  afterwards  heard,  travelling 
incognito,  and  had  been  engaged  on  Intelligence  work 
for  his  country  in  Afghanistan.  But,  although  an 
enemy  in  theory,  he  was  a  friend  in  fact.  The  war 
was  far.  Here  in  the  desert  we  met  as  brothers.  A 
finer  figure  of  a  man  I  have  rarely  seen,  nor  a  truer 
gentleman.  He  was  an  ardent  Young  Turk,  and  if 
other  Young  Turks  were  cast  in  such  a  mould,  there 
would  be  a  place  in  the  world  for  the  race  of  Othman. 
But  I  have  never  seen  another  like  him. 

His  manners  were  perfect,  and  although  we  dis- 
cussed every  subject  under  the  sun  in  snatches  of 
French  and  broken  bits  of  Persian,  we  always  man- 
aged to  avoid  awkward  topics  such  as  atrocities,  re- 
prisals, and  the  like.  He  guessed,  I  think,  that  I  often 
thought  of  escape,  and  said  one  day: 

"I  shall  fully  understand  if  you  try  to  get  away, 
but  you  will  forgive  me,  won't  you,  if  I  use  my  re- 
volver?" 


"OUT  OF  GREAT  TRIBULATION  .  .  ."    61 

I  assured  him  I  would. 

"Good!"  he  laughed,  "because  I  am  a  dead  shot!" 

Well,  well,  one  day  we  will  pick  up  the  threads 
of  talk. 

At  Ress-el-Ain  we  separated  for  a  time,  and  my 
friend  was  carried  into  the  train,  where  he  lay  down 
and  took  no  further  interest  in  the  proceedings.  I 
also  lay  down,  exhausted  by  anxiety.  I  was  glad  to 
be  quit  of  the  desert.  Under  other  conditions  it 
might  have  been  charming,  but  its  glamour  is  in- 
visible to  a  captive's  eyes. 

The  train  journey  was  not  very  interesting,  except 
for  the  fact  that  our  guard  commander  (excited  per- 
haps by  the  approach  to  civilisation,  or  else  because 
he  was  free  from  the  restraining  influence  of  our 
teetotal  Boy  Scout)  purchased  a  bottle  of  'araq  and 
imbibed  it  steadily  on  the  journey  between  Ress-el- 
Ain  and  Djerablisse. 

9  Araq,  I  may  as  well  here  explain,  is  otherwise 
known  as  mastic  or  douzico,  and  is  a  colourless  alcohol 
distilled  from  raisins  and  flavoured  with  aniseed, 
which  clouds  on  admixture  with  water,  and  tastes  like 
cough-mixture.  It  is  an  intoxicant  without  the  saving 
grace  of  more  generous  vintages.  It  inebriates  but 
does  not  cheer. 

At  Djerablisse,  on  the  Euphrates,  our  guard  com- 
mander supplemented  the  fiery  'araq  with  some 
equally  potent  German  ration  rum.  By  the  time  we 


62  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

got  to  Aleppo  next  day  he  was  reeking  of  this  blend 
of  alcohols.  Not  all  the  perfumes  of  Arabia  could 
have  stifled  its  fumes,  nor  all  the  waters  of  Damascus 
have  quenched  his  thirst.  He  was  besotted. 

Escape  would  have  been  possible  then.  We  had 
become  separated  from  the  rest  of  our  party  and  were 
in  charge  of  one  old,  sleepy,  and  rather  friendly  sol- 
dier. There  seemed  to  be  great  doubt  in  his  mind  as 
to  where  we  should  pass  the  night,  but  we  eventually 
arrived  at  a  small  and  clean  Turkish  hotel,  where  we 
were  told,  rather  mysteriously,  that  we  should  be 
among  friends. 

I  looked  for  friends,  but  as  everyone  was  asleep, 
it  being  then  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  I  decided 
to  have  a  good  night's  rest  before  making  any  plans. 
Our  dainty  bedroom  was  too  tempting  to  be  ignored. 
The  curtains  were  of  Aleppo-work,  in  broad  stripes  of 
black  and  gold.  The  rafters  were  striped  in  black 
and  white.  The  walls  were  dead  white,  the  furniture 
dead  black.  Three  pillows  adorned  our  beds,  of  black 
and  of  crimson  and  of  brilliant  blue,  each  with  a 
white  slip  covering  half  their  length.  The  bed-covers 
were  black,  worked  with  gold  dragons.  It  was  like 
a  room  one  imagines  in  dreams,  or  sees  at  the  Russian 
Ballet. 

After  a  dreamless  night  between  sheets  and  on  a 
spring  mattress,  tea  was  brought  to  us  in  bed,  and 
immediately  afterwards,  as  no  guards  seemed  to  be 


"OUT  OF  GREAT  TRIBULATION  .  .  ."     63 

about,  I  rose,  greatly  refreshed,  and  dressed  in  haste. 
My  idea  was  to  order  a  carriage  to  drive  us  to  the 
sea-coast  at  Mersina,  from  which  place  I  felt  sure  it 
would  be  possible  to  charter  a  boat  to  Cyprus. 

But  these  hasty  plans  were  dispelled  by  finding 
the  Boy  Scout  waiting  for  me  in  the  passage. 

"Your  guard  commander  was  ill,"  he  explained, 
"so  I  arranged  that  you  should  be  brought  to  this 
hotel,  where  you  are  my  guests.  And  I  want  you  to 
lunch  with  me  at  one  o'clock." 

My  face  fell,  but  of  course  there  was  no  help  for 
it.  And  the  Boy  Scout's  hospitality  was  princely  in- 
deed. 

After  delicious  hors-d'oeuvres  (the  meze — as  it  is 
called  in  Turkey — is  a  national  dish)  and  soup,  and 
savoury  meats,  we  refreshed  our  palates  with  bowls 
of  curds  and  rice.  Then  we  attacked  the  sweets,  which 
were  melting  morsels  of  honey  and  the  lightest  pastry. 
After  drinking  the  health  of  the  invalid  (who  could 
not  join  us,  of  course)  in  Cyprian  wine,  we  adjourned 
to  the  Boy  Scout's  room  for  coffee  and  cigarettes. 
Here  I  found  all  his  belongings  spread  out,  including 
several  tins  of  English  bully-beef  and  slabs  of  choco- 
late, which  he  said  was  his  share  of  the  loot  taken  after 
our  retirement  at  the  Dardanelles.  He  begged  us 
to  help  ourselves  to  everything  we  wanted  in  the  way 
of  food  or  clothing:  and  he  was  ready,  literally,  to 
give  us  his  last  shirt.  After  having  fitted  us  out,  he 


64  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

telephoned  to  the  hospital  about  the  patient,  and  made 
arrangements  that  he  should  be  received  that  after- 
noon. 

Some  hours  later,  accordingly,  I  drove  to  the  hos- 
pital with  my  friend,  accompanied  by  two  policemen 
who  had  arrived  from  district  headquarters,  no  doubt 
at  the  Boy  Scout's  request. 

We  were  met  at  the  entrance  of  the  hospital  by  two 
odd  little  doctors. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  him?"  squeaked  Humpty 
in  French. 

"Fever,"  said  I. 

"Fever,  indeed!"  answered  Dumpty;  "let's  look  at 
his  chest." 

"And  at  his  back,"  added  Humpty  suspiciously. 

My  friend  disrobed,  shivering  in  the  sharp  air, 
and  these  two  strange  physicians  glared  at  him,  stand- 
ing two  yards  away,  while  the  Turkish  soldier  and  I 
supported  the  patient. 

"He  hasn't  got  it,"  they  said  suddenly  in  chorus. 

"Hasn't  what?" 

"Typhus,  of  course.  Carry  him  in.  He  will  be 
well  in  a  week." 

I  doubted  it,  but  the  situation  did  not  admit  of 
argument.  We  carried  him  in  through  a  crowd  of 
miserable  men,  in  every  stage  of  disease,  all  clamour- 
ing for  admittance.  No  one,  I  gathered,  was  allowed 
into  that  hospital  merely  for  the  dull  business  of  dying. 


"OUT  OF  GREAT  TRIBULATION  .  .  ."     65 

They  could  do  that  as  well  outside.  Thankful  for 
small  mercies,  therefore,  I  left  my  friend  in  the 
clutches  of  Humpty  and  Dumpty,  and  even  as  they 
had  predicted,  he  was  well  within  a  week. 

There  is  something  rather  marvellous  about  a  Turk- 
ish doctor's  diagnosis.  Such  trifles  as  the  state  of 
your  temperature  or  tongue  are  not  considered.  They 
trust  in  the  Lord  and  give  you  an  emetic.  Although 
unpleasant,  their  methods  are  often  efficacious. 

It  was  now  my  turn  to  fall  ill,  and  I  did  it  with 
startling  suddenness  and  completeness.  I  was  sitting 
at  the  window  of  the  house  in  which  we  were  confined 
in  Aleppo,  feeling  perfectly  well,  when  I  began  to 
shiver  violently.  In  half  an  hour  I  was  in  a  high 
fever.  That  night  I  was  taken  to  Humpty  and 
Dumpty.  Next  morning  I  was  unconscious. 

I  will  draw  a  veil  over  the  next  month  of  my  life. 
Only  two  little  incidents  are  worth  recording. 

The  first  occurred  about  a  week  after  my  admit- 
tance to  hospital,  when  my  disease,  whatever  it  was, 
had  reached  its  crisis.  A  diet  of  emetics  is  tedious, 
so  also  is  the  companionship  of  people  suffering  from 
delirium  tremens  when  one  wants  to  be  quiet.  An 
end,  I  felt,  must  be  made  of  the  present  situation. 
Creeping  painfully  out  of  my  bed,  I  went  down  the 
passage,  holding  against  the  wall  for  support.  It  was 
a  dark,  uneven  passage,  with  two  patches  of  moonlight 
from  two  windows  at  the  far  end.  Near  one  of  these 


66  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

pools  of  light  I  caught  my  foot  in  a  stone,  and  slipped 
and  fell.  I  was  too  weak  to  get  up  again.  I  cooled 
my  head  on  the  stones  and  wondered  what  would  hap- 
pen next.  Then  I  began  to  think  of  seas  and  rivers. 
All  the  delightful  things  I  had  ever  done  in  water 
kept  flitting  through  my  mind.  I  remembered  crouch- 
ing in  the  bow  of  my  father's  cat-boat  as  we  beat  up 
a  reach  to  Salem  (Massachusetts)  with  the  spray  in 
our  faces.  And  I  thought  of  the  sparkling  sapphire 
of  the  Mediterranean  and  the  cool  translucencies  of 
Cuckoo-weir.  ...  No  one  came  to  disturb  my  medi- 
tations. The  moonlight  shifted  right  across  my  body, 
and  slowly,  slowly,  I  felt  the  wells  of  consciousness 
were  filling  up  again.  I  was,  quite  definitely,  coming 
back  to  life.  It  was  as  if  I  had  really  been  once  more 
in  America  and  Italy  and  by  the  Thames,  living  again 
in  all  memories  connected  with  open  waters,  and  as  if 
their  solace  had  somehow  touched  me.  Their  coolness 
had  cured  me,  and  I  was  now  flying  back  through 
imperceptible  ether  to  Aleppo.  I  was  coming  back 
to  that  passage  in  a  Turkish  hospital.  .  .  . 

Did  I  draw,  I  wonder,  upon  some  banked  reserve 
of  vitality,  or  were  my  impressions  a  common  phase 
of  illness?  Anyway,  when  I  came  to,  I  was  a  differ- 
ent man.  The  waters  of  the  world  had  cured  me. 

Later,  during  the  journey  to  Afion-kara-hissar,  I 
had  a  relapse.  This  second  incident  of  my  illness 
was  a  spiritual  experience.  Having  been  carried  by 


"OUT  OF  GREAT  TRIBULATION  .  .  ."    67 

my  friend  to  the  railway  station,  I  collapsed  on  the 
platform  while  he  was  momentarily  called  away.  So 
dazed  and  helpless  was  I  that  I  lay  inconspicuously 
on  some  sacks,  a  bundle  of  skin  and  bone  that  might 
not  have  been  human  at  all.  Some  porters  threw 
more  sacks  on  the  pile  and  I  was  soon  almost  cov- 
ered. But  I  lay  quite  still:  I  was  too  tired  to  move 
or  to  cry  out.  As  bodily  weakness  increased,  so 
there  came  to  me  a  sense  of  mental  power,  over  and 
beyond  my  own  poor  endowments.  I  thrilled  to  this 
strange  strength,  which  seemed  to  mount  to  the  very 
throne  of  Time,  where  past  and  future  are  one.  Call 
it  a  whimsy  of  delirium  if  you  will,  nevertheless  one 
of  the  scenes  I  saw  in  the  cinema  of  clairvoyance 
was  a  scene  that  actually  happened  some  three  months 
later,  at  that  same  station  where  I  lay.  ...  I  saw 
some  hundred  men,  prisoners  from  Kut  and  mostly 
Indians,  gathered  on  the  platform:  one  of  these  men 
was  sitting  on  this  very  heap  of  sacks:  he  was  sitting 
there  rocking  himself  to  and  fro  in  great  agony,  for 
one  of  the  guards  had  struck  him  with  a  thick  stick 
and  broken  his  arm.  But  not  only  was  his  arm 
broken,  the  spirit  within  him  (which  I  also  saw)  was 
shattered  beyond  repair.  No  hope  in  life  remained: 
he  had  done  that  which  is  most  terrible  to  a  Hindu, 
for  he  had  eaten  the  flesh  of  cows  and  broken  the 
ordinances  of  caste.  His  companions  had  died  in  the 
desert  without  the  lustral  sacrifice  of  water  or  of  fire, 


68  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

and  he  would  soon  die  also,  a  body  defiled,  to  be  cast 
into  outer  darkness.  For  a  time  the  terror  and  the 
tragedy  of  that  alien  brain  was  mine:  I  shared  its 
doom  and  lived  its  death.  Later,  I  learnt  that  a  party 
of  men,  coming  out  of  the  great  tribulation  of  the 
desert,  had  halted  at  this  station,  and  a  Hindu  soldier 
with  a  broken  arm  had  died  on  those  sacks.  I  record 
the  incident  for  what  it  is  worth. 

Without  my  friend  I  should  never  have  achieved 
this  journey.  My  gratitude  is  a  private  matter, 
though  I  state  it  here,  with  some  mention  of  my  own 
dull  illness,  in  order  to  picture  in  a  small  way  the 
sufferings  of  our  men  from  Kut.  When  some  were 
sick  and  others  hale,  the  death-rate  was  not  so  high, 
but  with  many  parties,  such  as  those  whose  ghosts  I 
believe  I  saw,  there  was  no  possibility  of  helping 
each  other.  So  starved  and  so  utterly  weary  were 
they,  that  they  had  no  energy  beyond  their  own  ex- 
istence. Many  men  must  have  died  with  no  faith 
left,  in  man  or  God. 


On  arrival  at  Afion-kara-hissar,  we  were  shown  into 
a  bare  house.  For  a  day  I  rested  blissfully  on  the 
floor,  asking  for  nothing  better  than  to  be  allowed  to 
lie  still  for  ever  and  ever.  But  this  was  not  to  be. 
On  the  second  day  of  our  stay  we  noticed  signs  of 
great  excitement  among  our  guards.  They  nailed 


"OUT  OF  GREAT  TRIBULATION  .  .  ."     69 

barbed  wire  round  our  windows  and  they  watched  us 
anxiously  through  skylights  and  counted  us  continu- 
ally, as  if  uncertain  whether  two  and  two  made  four. 
Presently  the  meaning  of  their  precautions  was 
divulged.  Some  English  prisoners  had  escaped,  and 
our  captors  were  engaged  in  locking  the  stable  door 
after  the  steeds  had  gone.  All  the  prisoners  in  Afion- 
kara-hissar  were  marshalled  in  the  street,  and  marched 
off  to  the  Armenian  church,  situated  at  the  base  of 
the  big  rock  that  dominates  the  town.  Hither  we 
also  marched,  with  our  new  companions,  singing  the 
prisoners'  anthem: 

"We  won't  be  bothered  about 
Wherever  we  go,  we  always  shout 
We  won't  be  bothered  about  .  .  . 
We're  bothered  if  we'll  be  bothered  about!" 

greatly  to  the  astonishment  of  the  townsfolk,  who 
connected  the  Armenian  church  with  massacres  rather 
than  melody.  The  leader  of  our  band  was  a  wounded 
officer,  in  pyjamas  and  a  bowler  hat  (this  being  the 
sum  of  his  possessions)  who  waved  his  crutch  as  a 
conductor's  baton.  (Alas,  his  cheery  voice  is  stilled, 
for  he  died  in  hospital  a  year  later.  R.I.P.)  I  can 
still  see  him  hobbling  along — a  tall  figure  in  pink 
pyjamas,  with  one  leg  swinging,  bandaged  to  the  size 
of  a  bolster,  and  his  hat  askew,  and  his  long  chin  stuck 
out  defiantly — hymn-writer  and  hero  manque — fit 


70  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

leader  of  lost  causes  and  of  our  fantastic  pageant  to 
that  church. 

It  was  a  gay  and  motley  crew  of  prisoners  of  all 
nationalities  and  conditions  of  life  who  entered  its 
solemn  and  rather  stuffy  precincts.  We  were  all  de- 
lighted to  be  strafed  in  a  worthy  cause.  Three  good 
men  had  escaped,  and  more  might  follow  later. 

To  anyone  in  decent  health  the  month  we  spent  in 
the  Armenian  church  must  have  been  an  interesting 
experience.  Even  to  me,  it  was  not  without  amuse- 
ment. Imagine  a  plain,  rather  gloomy,  church,  built 
of  oak  and  sandstone,  with  a  marble  chancel  in  the 
east.  Two  rooms  opened  out  on  either  side  of  the 
altar,  and  there  was  a  high  gallery  in  the  west.  In 
the  body  of  the  building  the  English  camped.  One 
of  the  small  rooms  was  taken  by  the  French,  the  other 
we  reserved  for  a  chapel.  The  Russians  chiefly  in- 
habited the  space  between  the  chancel  and  the  altar, 
but  the  overflow  of  nationalities  mingled.  Our  sol- 
dier servants  were  put  in  the  gallery.  When  every- 
one was  fitted  in,  there  was  no  space  to  move,  except 
in  the  centre  aisle.  There  was  no  place  for  exercise 
or  any  arrangements  for  washing  or  cooking.  Dur- 
ing our  stay  in  the  church  two  men  died  of  typhus, 
and  it  is  extraordinary  that  the  infection  did  not 
spread,  considering  the  lack  of  sanitation.  During 
the  first  night  of  the  strafe,  the  Russians,  accustomed 
to  pogroms  in  their  own  country,  thought  there  was  a 


"OUT  OF  GREAT  TRIBULATION  .  .  ."    71 

likelihood  of  being  massacred,  and  kept  watch  through 
the  small  hours  of  the  morning  by  clumping  up  and 
down  the  aisle  in  their  heavy  boots.  All  night  long 
— for  I  was  sleepless,  too — I  watched  these  grave, 
bearded  pessimists  waiting  for  a  death  which  did  not 
come,  while  the  French  and  English  slept  the  sleep 
of  optimists.  At  last  dawn  arrived  and  lit  the  win- 
dows over  the  altar,  and  a  few  moments  later  the 
sunlight  crept  into  the  northern  transept.  Then  the 
Russians  gave  up  their  vigil,  dropped  in  tracks,  and  at 
once  began  snoring  in  the  aisle,  like  great  watch  dogs. 
The  noise  the  two  hundred  of  us  made  in  sleeping 
was  remarkable.  Probably  our  nerves  were  rather 
queer.  The  church  was  never  silent  through  the  night. 
Some  cried  out  continually  in  their  slumbers,  others 
went  through  a  pantomime  of  eating.  Some  moaned, 
others  chuckled.  One  sleeper  gave  a  hideous  laugh 
at  intervals;  one  could  hear  it  deep  down  in  his  throat, 
and  mark  it  gradually  bubbling  to  his  lips  until  he 
grew  vocal  like  some  horrible  hyena.  But  it  is  small 
wonder  that  the  prisoners  in  that  church  were  restless. 
The  marvel  is  that  they  slept  at  all.  Nearly  all  of 
us  had  lived  through  trying  moments,  and  had  felt 
the  hand  of  Providence,  whose  power  makes  one 
tremble.  We  knew  the  shivers  of  retrospection.  One 
officer,  for  instance,  wounded  in  an  attack  on  Gallipoli, 
had  been  dragged  as  a  supposed  corpse  to  the  Turkish 
trenches  and  there  built  into  the  parapet.  But  he  was 


72  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

none  the  worse  now  for  his  amazing  experiences, 
except  that  he  suffered  slightly  from  deafness,  as  his 
neck  had  formed  the  base  of  a  loophole.  Then  there 
was  a  man,  left  as  dead  after  an  attack,  who  recovered 
consciousness  but  not  the  use  of  his  limbs,  and  lay 
helpless  in  the  path  of  the  Turkish  retreat.  For  an 
hour  the  passers-by  prodded  him  with  bayonets,  so 
that  he  now  has  twenty-seven  wounds  and  a  large  gap 
in  his  body  where  there  should  be  solid  flesh.  From 
the  very  brink  of  the  valley  of  the  shadow  this  boy 
of  nineteen  had  returned  to  life.  Again,  there  was 
a  young  Frenchman,  who  lay  four  days  and  nights 
between  the  lines,  dying  of  the  twin  tortures  of  thirst 
and  a  stomach-wound:  but  by  a  miracle  he  survived, 
and  now  at  night,  sometimes,  when  will  lost  its  grip 
on  consciousness,  he  would  live  those  ninety-six  hours 
again.  Then  there  were  the  submarine  crews,  out  of 
the  jaws  of  the  worst  death  conceivable.  One  crew 
had  lived  for  a  whole  day  struggling  in  a  net  at  the 
bottom  of  the  Dardanelles,  while  the  air  became  foul, 
and  hope  waned,  and  the  submarine  "sweated,"  and 
depth  charges  exploded  so  close  to  them  that  on  one 
occasion  the  shock  knocked  a  teapot  off  a  table! 
Hemmed  in  and  helpless,  the  clammy  agony  of  that 
suspense  might  well  haunt  their  sleeping  hours. 

But  on  the  whole  our  psychology  was  normal. 
Only  at  nights,  if  one  lay  awake,  did  one  realise  the 
stress  and  stark  horror  through  which  the  sleepers  had 


"OUT  OF  GREAT  TRIBULATION  .  .  ."     73 

lived.  Out  of  four  hundred  officers  "missing"  at  the 
Dardanelles,  only  some  forty  were  surviving  at  Afion- 
kara-hissar.  This  fact  speaks  for  itself. 

By  day  we  wandered  about,  so  far  as  the  conges- 
tion permitted,  making  friends  and  exchanging  expe- 
riences. To  us,  lately  from  Mesopotamia,  the  then 
unknown  story  of  Gallipoli  stirred  our  blood  as  it 
will  stir  the  blood  of  later  men. 

I  ate  and  drank  the  anecdotes  of  Gallipoli  as  they 
were  told  me.  I  loved  the  hearing  of  them,  in  the 
various  dialects  of  the  protagonists,  from  a  lordly  lisp 
to  a  backwood  burr.  The  brogue,  the  northern 
drawl,  the  London  twang,  the  elided  g's,  or  the  un- 
certain h's,  had  each  their  several  and  distinct  fascina- 
tion. There  is  joy  in  hearing  one's  own  tongue  again 
after  a  time  of  strange  speech  and  foreign  faces. 

"Beyond  our  reason's  sway, 
Clay  of  the  pit  whence  we  were  wrought 
Yearns  to  its  fellow-clay." 

The  many  voices  of  the  many  British  were  better 
than  sweet  music. 

But  we  had  plenty  of  sweet  music  as  well.  The 
sailors  amongst  us  were  the  cheeriest  crew  imaginable. 

A  resume  of  our  life  at  that  time  would  be  that 
we  sang  often  about  nothing  in  particular,  swore  con- 
tinually at  life  in  general,  smoked  heavily,  gambled 
mildly,  and  drank  'araq  when  we  could  get  it,  and 


74  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

tea  when  we  couldn't.  Not  everyone,  I  hasten  to  add, 
did  all  these  things.  As  in  everyday  life,  there  were 
some  who  said  that  the  constant  cigarette  was  evil, 
and  that  cards  were  a  curse,  and  drink  the  devil. 
But,  again  as  in  everyday  life,  their  example  had  no 
effect  on  cheerful  sinners. 

"Here's  to  the  bold  and  gallant  three 
Who  broke  their  bonds  and  sought  the  sea," 

sang  one  of  the  poets  of  our  captivity,  and  all  of  us, 
French,  Russians,  and  English,  took  up  the  chorus 
with  a  roar.  The  Turkish  sentries  protested  vainly, 
and  some,  ostentatiously  loading  their  rifles,  went  up 
to  'the  western  gallery  which  overlooked  the  body  of 
the  church.  As  we  were  being  treated  like  Armen- 
ians, they  could  not  understand  why  we  did  not  be- 
have like  Armenians  and  herd  silently  together,  as 
sheep  before  a  storm.  Instead  of  which,  two  hundred 
lusty  voices  proclaimed  to  anyone  who  cared  to  listen 
that  we  were  not  downhearted. 

See  us  then  at  midnight,  seated  at  a  table  under  the 
high  altar.  About  fifty  of  us  are  celebrating  some- 
body's birthday,  and  a  demijohn  of  'araq  graces  the 
festive  board.  We  have  sung  every  song  we  know, 
and  many  we  don't. 

"Jolly  good  song  and  jolly  well  sung, 
Jolly  good  fellows  every  one  .  .  . 
Wow!     Wow!" 


"OUT  OF  GREAT  TRIBULATION  .  .  ."     75 

The  chorus  died  down,  and  the  master  of  the  cere- 
monies, still  in  pyjamas  and  bowler  hat,  rises  on  his 
sound  leg  and  standing  (swaying  slightly)  at  the  head 
of  the  table,  he  raps  on  it  with  his  crutch  for  silence. 

One  officer  wears  a  soup  bowl  for  a  Hun  helmet. 
Others  are  dressed  as  parodies  of  Turks,  and  have 
been  acting  in  a  farce  entitled  "The  Escape."  Two 
Irish  friends  of  mine  are  singing  "The  Wearing  of 
the  Green,"  while  others  are  patriotically  drowning 
their  voices.  A  submarine  skipper,  with  a  mane  of 
yellow  hair  over  his  face,  like  a  lion  in  a  picture- 
book,  watches  a  diplomat  dancing  a  hornpipe.  A 
little  bald  flying  man  of  gigantic  strength  and  brain 
is  wrestling  with  a  bearded  Hercules.  Some  sailors 
are  singing  an  old  sea-chanty. 

The  rough  deal  table  littered  with  pipes  and 
glasses,  the  tallow-dips  lighting  the  vaulted  gloom,  the 
bearded  roysterers  singing  songs  older  than  Eliza- 
beth's time,  the  simple  fare  of  bread  and  meat,  the 
simpler  jokes  and  horseplay,  took  one  back  through 
centuries  to  other  men  who  made  the  best  of  war. 
In  Falstaff's  time  just  such  scenes  as  these  must  have 
passed  in  the  taverns  of  Merrie  England.  Only  there 
were  no  wenches  here  to  serve  us  with  sack.  We 
had  to  mix  our  own  'araq. 

"Silence,  if  you  please,"  says  he  of  the  long  jowl, 
using  his  crutch  as  a  chairman's  hammer.  "Silence 
for  the  prisoners'  band." 


76  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

The  band  begins.  It  consists  of  penny  whistles, 
banjos,  castanets,  soup  bowls,  knives  and  forks,  and 
anything  else  within  reach.  The  motif  of  the  piece 
is  our  release.  Andante  con  coraggio  we  pass  the 
weary  months  ahead.  Then  the  dawn  of  our  liber- 
ation breaks.  We  smash  everything  we  possess  ap- 
parently, while  the  train  to  take  us  away  steams  into 
the  station. 

Sh!  Shh!  Shhh!  Chk!  Chk!  Chk!  Bang! 
Swish!  !  We  take  our  seats  amid  a  perfect  pande- 
monium. Then  the  train  whistles — louder  and 
louder — and  we  move  off — faster  and  faster  and 
faster  and  faster,  until  no  one  can  make  any  more 
noise  and  the  dust  of  our  stamping  has  risen  like  in- 
cense to  the  roof,  in  a  grand  finale  of  freedom. 

Strange  doings  in  a  church,  you  say?  But  what 
would  you?  We  had  nowhere  else  to  go.  There  is 
a  time  for  everything,  after  all,  and  it  is  a  poor  heart 
that  never  rejoices.  I  feel  sure  Solomon  himself 
would  have  sung  with  us,  and  proved  most  excellent 
company. 

On  Sunday  mornings  divine  service  was  always 
well  attended.  Perhaps  by  contrast  with  my  usual 
methods  of  passing  the  time,  those  Sabbath  hours  are 
set  as  so  many  jewels  in  the  tarnished  shield  of  idle- 
ness. The  fadeless  beauty  of  our  Common  Prayer 
brought  hope  and  consolation . to  all  of  us  who  were 
gathered  together.  We  repeated  the  grand  old 


"OUT  OF  GREAT  TRIBULATION  .  .  ."    77 

words;  we  sang  "Fight  the  good  fight"  and  "Onward, 
Christian  soldiers."  We  shared  then,  however 
humbly,  in  the  tears  and  triumph  of  our  cause.  We 
were  not  of  that  white  company  that  was  to  die  for 
England,  but  we  could  share  the  sorrow  of  the  women 
who  mourned,  and  of  the  old  who  stood  so  sadly  out- 
side the  fray. 

And  as  through  a  magic  door,  I  passed  from  that 
barren  room  to  a  country  church  where  the  litany  for 
all  prisoners  and  captives  went  up  to  Heaven  mingled 
with  the  fragrance  of  English  roses. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   LONG   DESCENT   OF   WASTED   DAYS 

AFION-KARA-HISSAR  means  "Black  Opium  City"  in 
English,  but  it  is  not  as  interesting  a  place  as  it 
sounds.  The  only  romantic  visitors  are  the  storks, 
who  use  it  as  an  aerodrome  on  their  bi-annual  migra- 
tions. They  blacken  the  sky  when  they  come,  in 
flights  a  thousand  strong,  swooping  and  circling  over 
the  plain  and  alighting  finally  near  the  black  rocks 
that  give  the  town  its  name.  With  one  leg  tucked 
up,  and  pensive  beak  back-turned,  they  form  arrest- 
ing silhouettes  against  the  sunset.  And  curiously 
enough,  the  Turkish  children  know  that  they  bring 
babies  to  the  home. 

We  lived  in  four  cottages,  connected  by  a  common 
garden.  They  were  quite  new — so  new  that  they 
had  no  windows  or  conveniences.  We  fitted  frames 
and  panes,  we  erected  bathrooms,  installed  kitchen 
ranges,  made  beds  out  of  planks  and  string,  and  tables 
out  of  packing  cases.  We  made  everything,  in  fact, 
except  the  actual  houses. 

I  daresay  that  at  this  time  we  were  better  treated 
than  the  officer  prisoners  in  Germany.  Not  so  the 

78 


THE  LONG  DESCENT  OF  WASTED  DAYS    79 

men.  We  officers  had  plenty  to  eat,  though  it  cost  a 
lot,  but  the  men  were  always  half  starved  when  for 
any  reason  they  could  not  supplement  their  ration 
from  ambassador's  money,  or  private  remittances 
from  home.  Every  month  the  American  (and  later 
the  Dutch)  Embassy  used  to  send  a  sum  of  money  to 
our  prisoners  to  help  them  buy  something  more  nour- 
ishing than  the  black  bread  and  soup  provided  by  the 
Turks.  When  this  relief  did  not  arrive  in  time,  or 
the  Turks  delayed  in  distributing  it,  our  men  suffered 
the  greatest  hardship.  Treatment  in  Turkey  was  all 
a  question  of  money.  The  officers  could,  and  did, 
cash  cheques  while  in  captivity,  and  were  able  to 
pay  for  the  necessities  (and  sometimes  also  the  minor 
luxuries)  of  existence,  but  the  men  were  entirely  de- 
pendent on  what  was  given  them.  Although  some 
had  bank  balances,  no  one  except  an  officer  was  al- 
lowed to  write  a  cheque. 

Here  it  is  fitting  to  say  a  word  in  praise  of  those 
organisations  who  sent  out  parcels  to  our  prisoners. 
No  words  can  repay  our  gratitude  to  them.  To  us 
officers  parcels  were  sometimes  in  the  nature  of  a 
luxury,  though  none  the  less  welcome.  But  to  the 
men,  who  starved  in  dungeons  of  the  interior,  they 
came  as  a  very  present  help  in  time  of  need.  The 
prisoners'  parcels  saved  many  lives,  and  I  hope  the 
kind  people  who  worked  so  hard  at  home  against  all 
sorts  of  difficulties  and  disappointments  realise  how 


80  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

grateful  we  are,  and  what  a  great  work  they  did.  Be- 
sides the  material  relief  of  provisions,  the  moral  effect 
of  a  parcel  from  home  on  the  mind  of  a  sick  prisoner 
cannot  be  over-estimated.  To  open  something  packed 
by  English  hands  was  like  a  breath  of  home  to  him. 

We  were  allowed  no  communication  with  the  men, 
so  it  was  very  difficult  to  help  them.  Whether  the 
worst  done  to  our  prisoners  in  Germany  equals  the 
worst  in  Turkey  I  do  not  know.  To  compare  two 
horrors  is  profitless.  But  I  do  know  something  of 
the  sufferings  of  our  men,  and  when  I  write  of  my 
own  petty  amusements  and  comedies  of  captivity  I 
do  not  for  a  moment  forget  the  tragedy  of  their  lives. 

Light  and  shade,  however,  there  must  be  in  every 
picture,  else  it  is  not  a  picture  at  all.  And  there 
must  be  colour  in  the  canvas,  however  grim  the  sub- 
ject. 

The  poppy  fields,  which  give  the  town  the  first  part 
of  its  name,1  lay  right  underneath  our  windows, 
across  the  station  road.  In  June,  when  they  were 
white  with  blossom,  and  the  farmers'  wives  came  out 
to  drain  the  precious  fluid  from  the  buds,  I  used  to 
gaze  and  gaze  at  the  beauty  of  the  world,  and  long 
for  freedom.  To  be  cooped  up  in  a  little  room,  when 
the  world  was  green  and  white,  and  the  sky  a  flawless 
blue,  and  summer  rode  across  the  open  lands,  was 
miserable.  It  was  unbearable  to  be  growing  old  and 

1  Afion  —  opium. 


THE  LONG  DESCENT  OF  WASTED  DAYS    81 

immobile,  like  the  hills  on  the  horizon,  When  one 
might  be  out  among  the  poppy  blossoms.  Of  what 
use  to  be  alive,  if  one  did  not  share  in  the  youth  of 
the  world? 

But  we  were  closely  guarded  in  our  cottages  and 
rarely  allowed  out,  except  into  the  back  garden — a 
bare  space  some  hundred  yards  by  thirty,  which  was 
the  scene  of  most  of  our  small  activities,  from  ea*rly 
morning  slipping  to  the  mid-day  display  of  our  wash- 
ing, and  from  the  occasional  amateur  theatricals  of 
an  evening  to  the  rare  but  tense  moments  of  an  at- 
tempted escape. 

A  diary  of  our  days  might  run  as  follows: — 

Monday.  Up  at  6  a.  m.  Skipped  200  times.  2 
eggs  for  breakfast,  tried  my  new  pekmes.1  Read 
Hilal.2  Looked  out  places  on  my  hidden  map.  Long 
argument  about  the  use  of  cavalry  in  modern  war. 
Walk  in  garden.  Mutton  cutlets  for  lunch.  Com- 
pleted making  my  new  hammock.  Argued  about 
Free  Trade.  Played  badminton  in  garden.  Read 

philosophy  with  and  .  Sakuska  3  party 

with and at  seven-thirty.  Watched  Polly 

picking  opium.  Dinner  at  8.  Soup,  eggs,  suet,  very 
satisfactory.  Bridge  and  bed. 

Tuesday.     Up  at  6.15.     Skipped  250  times,  and 

1  Pekmes :  a  substitute  for  jam  and  sugar,  made  from  raisins. 

2  The  Hilal:  a  Moslem  morning  paper,  published  in  French. 

3  Sakuska:  Russian  for  hors  d'ceuvres,  such  as  sardines,  frog's  legs, 
onions,  bits  of  cheese,  or  indeed  anything  edible. 


82  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

had.a  boxing  lesson.  Painful.  2  eggs  for  breakfast, 
but  one  bad.  Hilal  did  not  arrive.  Argued  about 
yesterday's  cavalry  news.  Walk  in  garden.  No 
meat  for  lunch.  Bitten  by  mosquitoes  in  my  ham- 
mock. Argued  about  Protection.  Ran  round  the 
garden  ten  times,  my  wind  is  getting  worse.  Sakuska 

party  at  Sevenish  with and in  my  room. 

Polly  was  seen  out  walking  with  a  posta.1  Dinner 
at  8.  Mutton  cutlets.  Chess  and  bed. 

And  so  on,  ad  infinitum. 

I  had  at  that  time  come  to  the  conclusion  that  I 
could  not  reach  the  coast  from  Afion-kara-hissar,  so 
for  some  time  I  sought  a  mental  rather  than  a  physical 
escape  from  my  surroundings.  Philosophy  seemed 
an  ideal  subject  under  the  circumstances,  and  in  the 
company  of  two  friends  of  like  mind  I  made  some 
study  of  "Creative  Evolution."  Every  afternoon  we 
used  to  foregather  for  tea,  in  a  little  room  I  had  built, 
where  our  joint  contributions  provided  a  well-selected 
pabulum  of  cakes  and  jam  and  Bergson,  so  that  the 
inner  and  the  outer  man  were  Platonically  at  one. 
But  to  plunge  from  "le  tremplin  de  la  vie"  is  not  easy 
in  captivity.  Lack  of  employment  cripples  imagina- 
tion. The  average  mind  works  best  when  it  has  prac- 
tical things  to  do,  and  mine,  such  as  it  is,  boggles  at 
abstractions  more  quickly  than  it  tires  of  talk. 

When  this  occurred  the  best  thing  to  do  was  to 

1  Posta:  a  Turkish  sentry. 


THE  LONG  DESCENT  OF  WASTED  DAYS    83 

laugh.  A  friend  and  I  used  to  laugh  for  hours  some- 
times over  weak  and  washy  stories  that  would  hardly 
pass  muster,  even  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning. 
But  they  did  us  good.  Generally,  however,  the  time 
between  tea  and  dinner  was  spent  in  learned  and 
weighty  discussions  on  Appearance,  Reality,  and  the 
problems  of  Being  and  Not  Being. 
With  my  two  friends 

" — the  seed  of  Wisdom  did  I  sow 
And  with  my  own  Hand  arboured  it  to  grow, 
But  this  was  all  the  Harvest  that  I  reaped — 
I  came  like  Water  and  like  Wind  I  go." 

Only  unfortunately  I  did  not  go.  I  remained 
firmly  fixed  at  Afion-kara-hissar.  When  philosophy 
failed  me,  the  hours  spent  in  planning  escapes  and 
concocting  cyphers  were  those  which  passed  most 
easily.  But  the  craft  of  cyphers,  interesting  though 
it  be,  cannot  be  discussed  in  print.  Like  the  prepa- 
ration of  poisons,  it  must  remain  part  of  the  unpub- 
lished knowledge  of  the  world,  until  the  millennium. 
As  regards  escapes,  some  of  us  thought  a  great  deal, 
and  did  very  little.  There  were,  however,  some  in- 
genious attempts  made  to  get  to  Constantinople.  One 
officer  conceived  the  idea  of  going  there  to  be  treated 
for  hydrophobia,  and,  after  inflicting  suitable  wounds 
in  the  calf  of  his  leg  with  a  pair  of  nail  scissors,  he 
asserted  that  a  certain  dog,  well  known  in  the  camp, 


84  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

had  exhibited  strange  symptoms  of  insanity,  amongst 
others  that  of  suddenly  biting  him  in  the  leg.  This 
ruse  would  have  succeeded  but  for  the  fact  that  the 
Turks  did  not  treat  hydrophobia  with  any  seriousness. 
Kismet  takes  no  account  of  the  Pasteur  system.  Short 
of  actually  snapping  at  someone,  the  officer  could  not 
have  established  a  belief  in  his  infection.  He  found 
it  simpler  to  feign  another  ailment.  Two  other  of- 
ficers, however,  of  a  still  more  picturesque  turn  of 
mind,  declared  that  they  themselves  were  mad,  and 
actually  hung  themselves  as  a  proof  of  insanity. 
They  were  found  one  morning  by  their  astonished 
sentries  suspended  from  a  rafter  and  apparently  in 
the  last  stages  of  strangulation.  Convinced  that  they 
were  "afflicted  of  God,"  the  Turks  sent  them  to  hos- 
pital and  carefully  watched  for  any  symptoms  of 
suicidal  mania.  After  various  astonishing  experi- 
ences, in  their  role  of  madmen,  amongst  real  mad- 
men in  a  Turkish  lunatic  ward,  they  were  eventually 
exchanged. 

In  sheer  manual  dexterity,  our  prisoners  also 
showed  great  resource.  The  soldiers  who  were  em- 
ployed on  making  a  tunnel  through  the  Taurus,  to 
take  one  example,  succeeded  in  purloining  various 
odds  and  ends  from  the  workshops  where  they  la- 
boured under  German  supervision  until  they  event- 
ually were  able  to  build  for  themselves  a  complete 
collapsible  boat.  This  boat  they  actually  tested  at 


THE  LONG  DESCENT  OF  WASTED  DAYS    85 

dead  of  night  on  a  river  near  their  camp,  before  set- 
ting out  to  reach  the  coast.  That  success  did  not 
crown  their  efforts  was  sheer  bad  luck.  Luck,  also, 
was  against  the  most  of  the  forty  officers  who  con- 
certed a  simultaneous  escape  from  Yuzgad,  and  pre- 
pared for  it  in  absolute  secrecy,  down  to  the  smallest 
detail,  for  months  beforehand.  Some  of  them  even 
made  their  own  boots.  Only  eight  out  of  the  original 
party  actually  got  out  of  the  country,  however.  Their 
stoly,  purely  one  of  the  most  xem'arkable  ever  written, 
has  recently  been  published. 

The  two  great  difficulties  in  any  attempt  to  escape 
were  firstly  that  the  Turks,  by  spies  or  otherwise, 
studied  the  psychology  of  every  individual  prisoner, 
setting  special  guards  on  the  more  enterprising  among 
them,  and  secondly  that  the  distance  of  the  camp 
from  the  coast  and  the  number  of  brigands  infesting 
every  mile  of  that  distance  was  such  that  it  was  ex- 
tremely difficult  to  gain  the  sea,  let  alone  embark 
upon  it. 

The  spies  made  some  very  bad  guesses  about  the 
intentions  of  the  prisoners.  One  harmless  and  eld- 
erly officer  was  seen  greasing  a  pair  of  marching 
boots,  and  this  gave  rise  to  the  most  sinister  sus- 
picions. Where  could  the  officer  want  to  march  to, 
except  the  coast?  He  was  immediately  asked  for 
his  parole,  and  gave  it. 

Exercise  in  any  form  was  a  sign  of  incipient  mad- 


86  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

ness  in  the  eyes  of  the  Turks.  Why,  they  argued, 
should  any  one  in  his  right  mind  skip  five  hundred 
times,  and  then  splash  himself  with  ice-cold  water? 
If  he  did  such  things,  he  ought  certainly  to  be  placed 
under  restraint.  Boxing,  again,  was  a  suspect  symp- 
tom. A  man  who  bled  at  the  nose  for  pleasure  might 
commit  any  enormity.  In  order  to  circumvent  sus- 
picion it  was  necessary  to  adopt  the  utmost  caution. 
The  method  I  myself  employed  is  described  in  a 
later  chapter.  One  friend  of  mine,  while  training 
for  a  trip  to  Blighty,  habitually  carried  heavy  lead 
plates  hung  round  his  waist,  to  accustom  himself  to 
the  weight  of  his  pack.  Such  were  the  internal  diffi- 
culties. But  outside  the  camp  the  problems  were 
even  more  puzzling.  How  to  avoid  the  brigands — 
how  to  carry  food  enough  for  the  journey — how  to 
elude  our  guards  and  get  a  few  hours'  start — what 
clothes  to  wear  and  what  pack  to  carry — how  to  find 
one's  way — how  to  get  a  boat  once  the  coast  was 
reached — here  were  well-nigh  insoluble  questions, 
which  provided,  however,  excellent  topics  for  talk. 

I  talked  about  these  things  for  eighteen  months. 
But  I  will  ask  the  reader  to  skip  that  dismal  pro- 
cession of  moons  and  come  directly  to  the  day  when 
I  was  suddenly  asked  by  the  commandant  to  sign  a 
paper  stating  that  I  would  not  attempt  to  escape.  I 
naturally  refused,  as  also  did  another  officer  to  whom 
the  same  request  was  made. 


THE  LONG  DESCENT  OF  WASTED  DAYS     87 

Our  negotiations  in  this  matter,  while  interesting 
to  us  at  the  time,  and  involving  the  composition  of 
several  noble  documents  in  French,  led  to  the  sad 
result  that  we  were  both  transferred,  at  an  hour's 
notice,  to  a  little  box  of  a  house  in  the  Armenian 
quarter.  Once  inside  the  house,  with  the  various  be- 
longings we  had  collected  during  a  twelve-month  of 
captivity  in  Afion-kara-hissar,  we  two  completely  filled 
the  only  habitable  room.  And  although  habitable  in 
a  sense,  this  room  was  already  occupied  by  unde- 
sirable tenants. 

I  must  here,  rather  diffidently,  introduce  the  subject 
of  vermin.  But,  saving  the  public's  presence,  bugs 
are  the  very  devil.  Other  insects  are  nothing  to  them. 
Lice,  the  gallant  reader  may  have  met  at  the  front. 
Fleas  are  a  common  experience.  Centipedes  and 
scorpions  are  well  known  in  India.  But  bugs  are 
Beelzebub's  especial  pets,  and  Beelzebub  is  a  ruler  in 
Turkey.  It  is  quite  impossible  to  write  of  my  cap- 
tivity there  without  mentioning  these  small,  flat  crea- 
tures who  live  in  beds.  I  cannot  disregard  them: 
they  have  bitten  into  my  very  being. 

Imagine  lying  down,  after  a  sordid  day  of  dust 
and  disagreeableness.  One  thinks  of  home,  or  the 
sea.  One  tries  to  slide  out  to  the  gulfs  of  sleep,  where 
healing  is.  But  rest  does  not  come;  there  is  a  sense 
of  malaise.  One's  skin  feels  irritable  and  unclean. 
Presently  there  is  an  itching  at  one's  wrists,  and  at  the 


88  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

back  of  one's  neck.  One  squashes  something,  and 
there  is  a  smear  of  blood  (one's  own  good  blood)  and 
one  realises  that  one's  skin  (one's  own  good  skin) 
is  being  punctured  by  these  evil  beasts.  Almost  in- 
stantly one  squashes  another.  A  horrible  odour 
arises.  One  lights  the  candle,  and  there,  scuttling 
under  the  pillow,  are  five  or  six  more  of  these  loath- 
some vermin.  They  not  only  suck  one's  blood; 
they  sap  one's  faith  in  life. 

"If  one  could  dream  that  such  a  world  began 
In  some  slow  devil's  heart  that  hated  man — " 

indeed  one  would  not  be  mistaken.  In  them  the 
powers  of  evil  seem  incarnate. 

Having  killed  every  bug  in  sight,  one  lies  back 
and  gasps.  And  then,  out  of  the  corner  of  one's 
eye,  creeping  up  the  pillow,  and  hugely  magnified 
by  proximity,  another  monstrous  brute  appears.  It 
runs  forward,  horribly  avid,  and  eager,  and  brisk. 
All  the  cruelty  of  nature  is  in  its  hideous  head,  all 
the  activity  of  evil  in  its  darting  body.  Presently 
another  and  another  appear.  There  is  no  end  to 
them.  You  kill  them  on  the  bed  and  they  appear  on 
the  walls.  You  search  out  and  slaughter  every  form 
of  life  within  reach,  but  the  bugs  still  drop  on  you 
from  the  ceiling.  No  killing  can  assuage  their  ap- 
petite for  a  healthy  body.  Reckless  of  danger,  they 
batten  on  the  young.  Regardless  of  death,  they 


THE  LONG  DESCENT  OF  WASTED  DAYS    89 

swarm  to  silky  skin.  Of  two  victims  they  will  al- 
ways choose  the  one  in  best  condition. 

After  being  eaten  by  bugs  for  some  time,  one  feels 
infected  with  their  contamination.  It  is  almost  im- 
possible to  rise  superior  to  them.  In  one  night  a 
man  can  live  through  the  miseries  of  Job. 

It  may  be  imagined  therefore  that  our  confinement 
in  that  little  house  was  not  amusing.  My  companion 
in  misfortune  and  myself  lived  in  that  box  for  a  week 
with  the  bugs,  without  once  going  out  of  the  door. 
Now,  to  stay  in  a  room  for  a  week  may  not  seem  a 
very  trying  punishment  (I  was  later  to  spend  a  month 
in  solitary  confinement),  but  when  the  punishment  is 
wholly  undeserved,  and  when  moreover  one  is  wrongly 
suspected  of  something  one  would  like  to  do  but  has 
not  done,  and  when  there  are  bugs,  and  when  from 
confinement  one  sees  other  officers  walking  about  in 
comparative  freedom,  one  naturally  begins  to  fret. 

There  were  compensations,  however.  Firstly,  a 
friendship  grew  between  my  companion  and  myself 
which  I  hope  will  endure  through  life.  Secondly, 
as  a  prisoner,  any  sort  of  change  is  welcome.  And 
thirdly,  we  felt  we  were  doing  something  useful.  The 
commandant  did  not  dare  force  us  to  sign  parole. 
Neither  could  he  keep  us  permanently  in  special  re- 
straint. It  is  rarely  that  one  gets  the  chance,  as  a 
prisoner,  of  putting  the  enemy  on  the  horns  of  such 
a  dilemma. 


90  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

This  commandant,  an  ugly,  drunken  beast,  who 
is  now,  I  hope,  expiating  the  innumerable  crimes  he 
committed  against  our  men,  caused  a  search  to  be 
made  one  day  amongst  the  effects  of  all  the  prisoners 
at  Afion-kara-hissar.  One  of  the  most  interesting 
things  he  found  was  a  diary  kept  by  a  senior  British 
officer,  with  the  following  entry: 

"  New  commandant  arrived.  His  face  looks  as  if 
it  was  meant  to  strike  matches  on." 

No  better  description  could  possibly  have  been 
written.  He  was  a  vain  man,  and  it  must  have  cut 
him  to  the  quick  to  see  himself  as  others  saw  him. 

After  a  month  of  "special  treatment"  the  com- 
mandant learnt  that  Turkish  army  headquarters, 
fearing  reprisals,  no  doubt,  would  not  support  his 
bluff  in  punishing  us  if  we  did  not  give  parole.  He 
had  to  climb  down  completely. 

We  were  transferred  to  another  house,  in  the  Ar- 
menian quarter,  already  occupied  by  some  R.  N.  A.  S. 
officers,  who  were  all  determined  to  escape  if  oppor- 
tunity arose.  A  very  cheery  house-party  we  made. 

The  time  was  now  the  year  of  grace,  1917,  and 
our  life  was  organised  to  some  extent.  Once  or  twice 
a  week  we  were  allowed  to  play  football,  or  go  for 
a  walk.  On  Thursdays  we  used  to  troop  down  in  a 
body  to  visit  the  officers  in  the  other  houses,  and  on 
Monday  mornings  we  were  sometimes  able,  with 
special  permission,  to  attend  the  weekly  fair  of  coke 


THE  LONG  DESCENT  OF  WASTED  DAYS    91 

and  firewood  held  in  the  market  place.  All  this  gave 
an  interest  to  our  lives,  and  money,  so  long  as  one 
was  prepared  to  write  cheques,  was  not  a  source  of 
difficulty.  The  Turks,  in  fact,  encouraged  us  to  write 
cheques,  exchanging  them  for  Turkish  notes  at  nearly 
double  their  face  value  (190  piastres  for  a  pound 
was  the  best  I  myself  received)  because  they  rightly 
thought  that  our  signature  was  worth  more  than  the 
guarantees  of  the  Turkish  Government.  I  heard 
afterwards  that  our  cheques  had  a  brisk  circulation 
on  the  Constantinople  Bourse.  But  one  was  loth  to 
write  many.  Five  pounds  is  five  pounds — and  in 
Turkey  it  represented  only  a  packet  of  tea  or  a  kilo- 
gram of  sugar.  ...  I  saved  as  much  as  I  could  for 
bribes  when  escaping. 

A  miscroscopic,  but  not  unamusing,  social  life  was 
in  full  swing.  There  were  parties  and  politics,  clubs 
and  cliques.  Each  prisoner,  according  to  his  tem- 
perament, took  his  choice  between  grave  pursuits  and 

§ay- 

There  were  lecturers  (really  good  ones)  who  dis- 
coursed on  a  wide  range  of  topics,  from  Mendelism 
to  Mesopotamia.  There  were  professors  of  French, 
Italian,  Greek,  Russian,  Turkish,  Arabic,  Hindustani, 
and  I  daresay  all  the  languages  of  Babel,  ready  to 
teach  in  return  for  reciprocal  instruction  in  English. 
Our  library  contained  many  luminous  volumes,  kindly 
sent  out  by  the  Board  of  Trade.  .  .  .  Law  and  Sea- 


92  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

manship,  Semaphoring  and  Theology,  Carpentry  and 
the  Integral  Calculus,  Gardening  and  Genetics — such 
is  a  random  selection  of  the  subjects  on  which  there 
were  experts  available  and  eager  to  impart  informa- 
tion. 

But  personally,  my  mind  resisted  the  seductions 
of  learning.  I  learned  only  how  to  waste  time.  And 
sometimes,  perhaps,  I  touched  the  hem  of  Philoso- 
phy's garment,  and  stammered  a  few  words  to  her. 
Otherwise  I  did  nothing  except  try  to  forget  things. 
.  .  .  Things  seen. 

Yet  one  enjoyed  oneself  occasionally.  The  foot- 
ball was  great  fun.  So  also  were  some  of  the  lighter 
sides  of  our  indoor  life.  Poker  used  to  pass  the 
time.  So  also,  though  more  rapidly,  did  reading. 
The  plays  which  a  dramatist — soon  to  be  eminent,  I 
expect — presented  to  enthusiastic  audiences  are  de- 
lightful memories.  His  revues  and  topical  verses 
were  worthy  of  a  wider  audience,  and  I  am  sure  his 
work — unlike  the  most  of  our  labours — will  not  be 
wasted.  He  will  find  that  "all  the  world's  a  stage." 

But  best  of  all,  I  think,  was  to  sit  in  a  circle  on  the 
floor  round  a  brazier  on  a  winter's  evening,  and  sip 
hot  lemon  'araq,  and  listen  to  songs  and  stories.  It 
was  a  relief  to  laugh,  and  forget  the  fate  of  those  we 
could  not  help. 

"Sweet  life,  if  love  were  stronger, 
Earth  clear  of  years  that  wrong  her  .  .  ." 


THE  LONG  DESCENT  OF  WASTED  DAYS    93 

sang  a  soft  Irish  voice,  whose  melody  seemed  to  melt 
into  the  cold  of  one's  captivity.  .  .  .  Then  there  were 
the  Fancy  Dress  Balls  held  on  New  Year's  Eve  in 
1917  and  1918.  So  good  were  they  that  for  the 
night  one  completely  forgot  one's  surroundings.  A 
very  attractive  maid  dispensed  refreshments  behind  a 
table.  There  were  several  debutantes,  and  at  least 
one  chaperone.  Some  married  people  were  there, 
and  Mephistopheles,  and  Bacchus,  and  a  very  real- 
istic pirate.  If  some  reveller  in  London  had  looked 
in  on  us  at  midnight  he  might  easily  have  fancied 
himself  at  an  artists'  dance.  He  would  certainly  not 
have  guessed  that  all  the  clothes  and  furniture  and 
food  were  home-made,  and  that  every  one  in  the  room 
was  a  British  officer.  The  self-confident  flapper,  for 
instance,  who  could  only  have  given  him  "the  next 
missing  three"  was  a  major  in  the  Flying  Corps. 
And  the  girl  with  big  brown  eyes  who  would  have 
offered  him  coffee  so  charmingly  was  really  a  sub- 
marine officer  of  the  Navy,  who  knew  all  about  the 
ways  of  barmaids. 

After  functions  such  as  these,  the  morning  after 
the  night  before  found  me  wondering  where  it  would 
all  end.  If  the  war  lasted  another  ten  years,  would 
I  ever  be  fit  to  take  my  place  in  normal  life?  How 
long  could  I  keep  sane  in  this  topsy-turvy  world?  .  .  . 

The  weather  in  the  winter  of  1918  was  absolutely 


94  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

arctic.  For  a  month  there  was  a  very  hard  frost,  and 
during  all  this  time,  had  it  not  been  for  festivities 
such  as  the  foregoing,  I  should  have  stayed  stupidly 
in  bed  and  hibernated  until  the  spring.  Intenser  cold 
I  have  never  felt.  In  the  room  in  which  we  dined, 
the  water  froze  in  our  glasses  on  several  occasions 
while  we  were  eating  our  evening  meal.  Icy  winds 
howled  through  the  house  and  the  paper  windows 
we  had  improvised  (to  replace  unobtainable  glass) 
had  burst  through  weight  of  snow.  Also,  the  plaster 
of  the  outer  walls  of  our  mansion  had  peeled  off,  so 
that  cold  blasts  penetrated  through  the  walls.  With 
few  clothes  and  only  one  pair  of  leaky  boots  it  was 
impossible  to  keep  warm  and  dry-shod.  Fuel,  of 
course,  was  very  scarce.  In  my  bedroom  some  pre- 
cious quarts  of  beer,  which  I  was  preserving  for 
Christmas,  froze  and  burst  their  bottles.  I  invited  a 
party  to  taste  my  blocks  of  amber  ice,  but  they  were 
better  to  look  at  than  to  swallow. 

Under  these  climatic  conditions  washing  was  a  la- 
bour that  took  one  the  best  part  of  the  morning,  and 
until  I  caught  a  chill  I  used  to  economise  time  and  fuel 
by  rolling  in  the  snow  on  the  flat  roof  of  my  house. 
This  amused  me  and  surprised  the  neighbourhood, 
but  it  was  a  poor  substitute  for  a  bath.  That  winter 
was  a  black,  bleak  time. 

During  the  hard  frost  it  was  impossible  to  escape, 
but  we  used  occasionally  to  reconnoitre  the  sentries 


THE  LONG  DESCENT  OF  WASTED  DAYS     95 

outside  our  house  after  lock-up.  I  have  spent  some 
amusing  moments  in  this  way,  especially  in  watch- 
ing one  sentry  (generally  on  duty  at  midnight)  who 
used  to  warm  himself  by  playing  with  a  cat.  With 
pussy  on  one  arm  and  his  rifle  on  the  other,  he  formed 
a  delightfully  casual  figure.  It  would  have  been 
quite  easy  to  pass  him,  but  the  difficulties  lay  be- 
yond. .  .  . 

I  then  thought,  wrongly  I  daresay,  that  the  only 
reasonable  hope  of  success  lay  in  starting  from  Con- 
stantinople, and  it  was  to  this  end  that  my  real  schemes 
were  shaping.  Only  I  thought  it  well  to  have  two 
strings  to  my  bow.  Besides,  I  considered  no  day 
well  spent  which  did  not  include  some  practical  effort 
towards  escape. 

A  complex  of  causes  contributed  to  this  idea,  which 
became  almost  an  obsession.  First,  I  daresay,  was 
boredom.  Second,  the  feeling  that  one  was  not  earn- 
ing one's  pay  or  doing  one's  duty  by  remaining  idly 
a  prisoner.  And  thirdly — or  was  it  firstly? — the 
conditions  under  which  our  men  were  living  and  the 
crimes  which  had  been  committed  against  them  made 
it  imperative  that  someone  should  get  to  England  with 
our  news.  It  was  high  time,  and  past  high  time, 
that  the  civilised  world  should  know  how  our  prison- 
ers fared. 

I  have  already  written  the  savage  story  of  our  life 
at  Mosul,  where  the  men  died  from  calculated  cruelty. 


96  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

The  history  of  the  Kut  prisoners  is  even  worse,  for 
the  crime  was  on  a  greater  scale. 

That  garrison,  debilitated  from  the  long  siege  and 
the  climatic  conditions  of  Mesopotamia,  were  marched 
right  across  Asia  Minor  with  hardly  any  clothes,  no 
money,  and  insufficient  food.  Their  nameless  suffer- 
ings will  never  be  known  in  full,  for  many  died  in 
the  desert,  clubbed  to  death  by  their  guards,  stripped 
naked,  and  left  by  the  roadside.  Others  were  aban- 
doned in  Arab  villages,  when  in  the  last  stages  of 
fever  or  dysentery.  Others,  more  fortunate,  were 
found  dead  by  their  companions  after  the  night's  halt, 
when  the  huddled  sleepers  turned  out  to  face  another 
day  of  misery.  Hopeless  indeed  the  outlook  must 
have  seemed  to  some  lad  fresh  from  the  fields  of 
home.  The  brutal  sentries,  the  arid  desert,  the  daily 
deaths,  the  daily  quarrels,  the  bitterness  of  the  fu- 
ture, as  bleak  as  the  acres  of  sand  that  stretched  to 
their  unknown  destination,  the  dwindling  company  of 
friends,  the  grip  of  thirst,  the  pangs  of  hunger  and 
the  pains  of  death — such  was  the  outlook  for  many 
a  lad  from  England  who  died  between  Baghdad  and 
Aleppo.  Ghosts  of  such  memories  must  not  be  lightly 
evoked  amongst  those  alive  to-day,  but  always  they 
will  haunt  the  trails  of  the  northern  Arabian 
desert.  .  .  . 

Through  it  all  our  men  were  heroes.  To  the  last 
they  showed  their  captors  of  what  stuff  the  Anglo- 


THE  LONG  DESCENT  OF  WASTED  DAYS    97 

Saxon  is  made.  The  cowardly  Kurds,  who  were  the 
worst  of  the  various  escorts  provided  between  Bagh- 
dad and  Aleppo,  never  dared  to  insult  our  men  un- 
less they  outnumbered  them  four  to  one.  Even  then 
they  generally  waited  until  some  sick  man  fell  down 
from  exhaustion  before  clubbing  him  to  death  with 
their  rifle  butts. 

In  the  middle  of  the  desert,  between  Mosul  and 
Aleppo,  a  friend  of  mine  found  six  half -demented 
British  soldiers  who  had  been  propped  up  against 
the  wall  of  a  mud  hut  and  left  there  to  die.  There 
was  no  transport,  no  medicines.  Nothing  could  be 
done  for  them.  They  died  long  before  the  relief 
parties  organised  at  Aleppo  could  come  to  their 
rescue. 

At  Aleppo  the  hospital  treatment  was  extremely 
bad. 

All  men  who  were  fit  to  move  (and  many  who  were 
not)  were  sent  on  in  cattle  trucks  to  various  camps 
in  the  centre  of  Anatolia,  and  when  at  length  they 
reached  these  camps  after  vicissitudes  which  were 
only  a  dreary  repetition  of  earlier  experiences,  they 
came  upon  the  plague  of  typhus  at  its  height,  and 
naturally,  in  this  weakened  state,  succumbed  by  scores 
and  hundreds. 

To  see  a  body  of  our  soldiers  arriving  at  Afion- 
kara-hissar,  pushed  and  kicked  and  beaten  by  their 
escort,  was  a  sight  that  no  one  who  has  seen  it  will 


98  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

ever  forget.  Our  men  were  literally  skeletons  alive, 
skeletons  with  skin  stretched  across  their  bones,  and 
a  few  rags  on  their  backs.  This  is  an  exact  state- 
ment of  things  seen.  They  struggled  up  the  road, 
hardly  able  to  carry  the  pitiful  little  bundles  contain- 
ing scraps  of  bread,  a  bit  of  soap,  a  mug,  all  in  short 
that  they  had  been  able  to  save  from  systematic  loot- 
ing on  the  way. 

In  silence  and  unswerving,  they  passed  up  that  road 
to  the  hospital,  and  all  who  saw  those  companies  of 
Englishmen  so  grim  and  gallant  in  adversity  must 
have  felt  proud  their  veins  carried  the  same  blood. 

Once  in  hospital  our  prisoners  fared  no  better. 
There  were  no  beds  for  them,  and  hardly  any  blankets 
or  medicines.  They  died  in  groups,  lying  outside  the 
hospital. 

It  was  a  common  sight  to  see  sad  parties  of  our 
men  passing  down  this  same  road,  away  from  the 
hospital  this  time,  and  towards  the  burying  ground. 
Those  weary  processions  consisting  of  four  or  five 
emaciated  men,  with  a  stretcher  and  a  couple  of 
shovels,  used  to  pass  underneath  our  windows — a 
party  of  skeletons  alive,  carrying  a  skeleton  dead. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   PSYCHOLOGY   OF   PRISON 

THE  contrast  of  tragedy  and  farce,  and  the  incidents 
and  the  lack  of  incident,  which  I  have  attempted  to 
sketch  in  the  foregoing  chapter  had  a  marked  mental 
effect  on  all  of  us.  But  each  felt  the  effects  of  con- 
finement differently.  With  me,  I  came  to  look  on 
my  life  in  Turkey  as  something  outside  the  actuality 
of  existence.  I  did  not  feel  "myself"  at  all.  I  was 
disembodied,  left  with  no  link  with  the  outer  world, 
except  memory  and  anticipation.  I  was  in  a  dark 
forest,  far  from  all  avenues  of  activity,  the  sanity  of 
society,  and  the  companionship  of  women.  My  world 
seemed  make-believe,  and  my  interests  counterfeit. 

I  worked  at  a  novel  with  a  friend  of  mine,  and  for 
a  time  that  seemed  something  practical  to  do.  But 
there  was  always  the  fear  that  it  would  be  taken  from 
us  by  the  Turks,  and  the  possibility  that  we  would 
never  publish  it. 

Doubt  and  indecision  lay  heavy  on  me.  I  did  not 
know  how  long  captivity  would  last.  A  criminal's 
sentence  is  fixed:  not  so  a  prisoner  of  war's.  He  is 
dependent  on  matters  beyond  his  control,  and  a  will 


100  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

beyond  his  narrow  ambit.  To  reach  that  outside  will, 
and  to  form  a  part  of  it  again,  was  my  dominating 
wish.  Through  the  glasses  of  captivity  the  world  was 
colourless  and  distorted.  Only  freedom  could  make 
me  see  it  again  aright.  And  when  freedom  seemed 
remote,  the  world  was  very  colourless. 

The  novel  amused  me  by  snatches.  Learning  lan- 
guages amused  me  at  times.  But  these  things  were 
really  the  diversions  of  a  child,  who  dreams  in  wak- 
ing hours  as  well  as  at  night  of  another  and  a  fairer 
world. 

But  unlike  a  child,  I  became  absorbed  in  self.  I 
analysed  my  moods,  and  thought  gloomily  about  my 
health.  I  mourned  my  youth,  as  my  hair  turned 
grey.  The  sorrows  of  the  spinster  were  mine  and 
the  griefs  of  the  middle-aged.  The  value  of  material 
things  was  magnified.  The  pleasures  of  the  palate, 
I  confess,  assumed  an  exaggerated  importance.  I 
found  a  new  joy  in  food,  and  sometimes  I  dreamed 
that  I  was  eating.  Also  I  contracted  the  habit  of 
smoking  cigarettes  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  And 
I  learnt  that  the  effect  of  alcohol,  when  one  is  very 
depressed,  is  like  putting  in  the  top  clutch  of  the  car 
of  consciousness,  so  that  one  runs  forward  smoothly 
on  the  road  of  life.  In  short,  I  enjoyed  eating  and 
drinking  and  smoking  in  a  way  that  I  have  never 
done  before,  and  never  will  again,  I  hope.  But  I 
know  now  why  public  houses  flourish.  After  my 


THE  PSYCHOLOGY  OF  PRISON        101 

own  experience  of  deathly  dulness,  I  heartily 
sympathise  with  those  who  seek  relief  in  alcohol  and 
nicotine.  They  may  be  poison,  but  in  this  imperfect 
world  the  deadliest  poison  of  all  is  boredom.  Pro- 
hibition, as  I  saw  it  in  Turkey,  when  tobacco  was 
short,  or  food  was  scarce,  or  alcohol  was  forbidden, 
did  not  impress  me  as  being  beneficial.  The  fact  is, 
we  all  need  stimulant  of  one  sort  or  another.  Nor- 
mally our  work,  our  home,  or  our  hopes  supply  this 
need.  Almost  everyone  in  the  world  is  struggling 
(however  carefully  they  may  disguise  the  fact)  to 
be  other  than  they  are,  and  better  (or  worse)  than 
they  are.  We  strive  after  superlatives  and  are 
rarely  satisfied  by  them.  But  in  captivity,  as  in  other 
circumstances  of  distress,  this  stay  in  life,  this  hope 
of  something  different  and  wish  for  something  more, 
is  suddenly  removed.  We  are  left  without  stimuli. 
Nothing  seems  to  matter.  One's  mental  and  material 
habits  inevitably  relax.  A  muddy  idea  seems  as 
good  as  a  clear  one — a  sloppy  suit  of  clothes  serves 
as  well  as  a  tidy  one.  Energy  wanes. 

But  why?  The  reason  is  that  the  average  mind 
cannot  live  on  abstractions.  It  must  grapple  with 
something  practical.  One  must  sharpen  one's  wits  on 
the  world,  and  it  is  just  this  that  as  a  prisoner  one 
cannot  do.  One  cannot  "lay  hold  on  life"  because 
there  is  no  life  to  lay  hold  of,  except  an  unnatural 
and  artificial  existence,  where  the  sympathy  of  women 


102  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

and  the  dignity  of  work  is  absent.  That  was  the 
crux  of  the  matter.  Sympathy  and  dignity  were 
lacking  in  our  life.  We  heard  of  advances  and  re- 
treats as  from  another  sphere.  We  read  of  great 
heroisms  and  great  sorrows  without  being  close  to 
them.  We  had  no  part  in  the  quarrel.  We  were 
in  a  squalid  by-way,  living  out  a  mean  tragedy,  while 
the  fate  of  all  we  loved  was  in  the  balance.  Never 
again  would  we  go  fighting. 

From  the  moment  of  our  capture  we  had  passed 
into  a  strange,  narrow  life,  where  the  spirit  of  man, 
while  retaining  all  its  old  memories  and  hopes,  could 
not  express  them  in  action. 

Captivity  is  a  minor  form  of  death,  and  I  was  dead, 
to  all  intents  and  purposes. 

Often,  lying  a-bed  in  the  early  morning,  I  used 
to  feel  that  my  body  was  completely  gone,  and  that 
only  a  fanciful  and  feverish  intelligence  remained. 
I  remember  especially  one  dawn  in  the  spring  of 
1917,  when  I  watched  two  figures  passing  down  the 
station  road.  Slouching  towards  the  station,  and  all 
unconscious  of  the  beauty  of  the  waking  world,  came 
a  soldier  with  his  pack  and  rifle.  He  wore  the  grey 
Turkish  uniform,  his  beard  was  grey,  his  cheeks  were 
also  grey  and  sunken.  Slowly,  slowly  he  dragged 
his  heavy  feet  towards  the  train  that  would  take  him 
away  to  the  war.  The  train  had  been  already 
signalled,  I  knew  (for  I  kept  notes  of  the  traffic  in 


THE  PSYCHOLOGY  OF  PRISON        103 

those  days)  and  I  found  myself  hoping  anxiously 
that  he  would  not  be  late.  The  sooner  he  was  killed 
the  better.  He  was  old  and  ugly  and  ill.  If  only 
such  as  he  could  perish.  .  .  .  Then  my  thought  took 
wings  of  the  morning.  From  the  soldier,  plodding 
onwards  devotedly,  as  so  many  men  have  gone  through 
history  to  their  deaths,  my  eye  ranged  across  the 
plains,  lying  dim  and  dark  to  eastward,  to  the  horizon 
mountains  of  the  Suleiman  Dagh,  whose  snow  had 
already  seen  the  messengers  of  morning  hasting  from 
the  lands  below  our  world.  And  man  seemed  mean 
and  minute  in  the  purposes  of  nature.  So  ugly  was 
he,  such  a  blot  on  the  landscape,  with  his  trains  and 
soldiers,  that  I  wondered  he  continued  to  exist. 
There  was  a  life  above  our  life  in  the  dawn.  The 
powers  of  the  world  knew  nothing  of  this  soldier's 
hopes  and  fears.  To  them  his  endeavours  were  a 
comedy.  A  huge  mountain-back,  with  the  gesture  of 
some  giant  in  the  playtime  of  long  ago,  seemed 
shrugging  its  shoulders  at  this  ridiculous  straying 
atom  of  a  moment's  space.  The  train  came  in,  and 
I  saw  its  smoke  above  the  tree-tops  of  the  station.  It 
whistled  shrilly,  and  the  soldier  quickened  his  pace. 
No  doubt  he  was  late.  Perhaps  he  still  survives,  and 
is  toiling  even  now  towards  some  trench.  Anyway 
he  passed  from  my  ken,  but  I  still  stood  at  the  win- 
dow, looking  towards  the  mountains  and  the  sky. 
Then  there  passed  an  archaic  ox-cart,  creaking  down 


104  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

the  road  slowly,  as  it  has  creaked  down  the  ages, 
from  the  night  of  Time.  It  was  drawn  by  a  white 
heifer,  whose  shoulders  strained  against  the  yoke,  for 
it  was  a  heavy  cart.  But  she  went  forward  willingly, 
resignedly.  Work  was  her  portion.  She  would  live 
and  die  under  the  yoke.  She  licked  her  cool  muzzle, 
dusted  flies  with  her  neat  tail,  and  looked  forward 
with  wistful  eyes  that  seemed  to  see,  beyond  her  work- 
ing world,  to  some  ultimate  haven  for  the  quiet  work- 
ers. Somewhere  she  would  find  rest  at  last.  To  my 
feverish  imagination  that  white  heifer  symbolised  the 
pathos  of  all  the  driven  souls  who  go  forward  un- 
questioning to  destiny.  And  the  soldier  with  his 
pack  was  type  also  of  voiceless  millions  who  carry 
the  burden  of  our  civilisation. 

We  stagger  on,  under  the  bludgeonings  of  chance, 
and  but  rarely  lift  our  eyes  to  the  dawn,  although  a 
daily  miracle  is  there.  Someone  conducts  the  orient- 
rite,  regardless  of  the  lives  of  men,  which  are  like 
waves  of  the  sea  that  come  sweeping  on,  on  the  tide 
of  war,  to  end  in  foam  and  froth.  Yet  from  this  stir 
of  hate  and  heroism  some  purpose  must  surely  rise. 
From  the  travail  of  the  trenches  some  meaning  will 
be  born. 

Such  thoughts  are  here  recorded  as  a  sample  of  my 
mind.  I  saw  things  through  images  and  symbols. 
Across  the  vast  inanity  of  that  waiting  time,  streaks 
of  vision  used  to  flash,  like  distant  summer  lightning. 


THE  PSYCHOLOGY  OF  PRISON       105 

Impermanent,  but  beautiful  to  me,  they  lit  a  fair 
horizon.  Else,  all  was  dark. 

To  call  this  time  a  death  in  life  seems  an  over- 
statement, but  if  my  experiences  in  Turkey  had  any 
mental  value  at  all,  it  was  just  this:  to  teach  me  how 
to  die.  A  curtain  had  come  down  on  consciousness 
when  I  was  captured.  Since  then  I  only  lived  in  the 
Before  and  After  of  captivity.  My  old  self  was  fin- 
ished. I  saw  it  in  clear  but  disjunct  pictures  of 
recollection;  pig-sticking,  sailing,  dining,  dancing,  or 
on  the  road  to  Messines,  one  hard  November  night 
when  feet  froze  in  stirrups  and  horses  slipped  and 
struck  blue  lights  from  the  cobbles.  And  my  new 
self  awaited  the  moment  of  freedom.  It  still  stirred 
in  the  womb  of  war. 

Even  so,  in  my  belief,  do  the  souls  of  our  comrades 
lost  consider  their  lives  on  earth  and  look  back  on 
their  time  of  trial  with  interest  and  regret.  Discar- 
nate,  they  cannot  achieve  their  desires,  yet  they  long 
to  manifest  again  in  the  world  of  men.  With  level 
and  unclouded  eyes  they  consider  the  incidents  of 
mortality,  and  find  in  them  a  Purpose  to  continue. 
There  is  work  for  them  in  the  world  through  many 
lives;  and  love,  which  will  meet  and  re-meet  its  love. 
And  so  at  last,  drawn  by  duty  and  affection,  those 
who  have  woven  their  lives  in  the  tapestry  of  our 
time  will  one  day  take  up  the  threads  again. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    COMIC   HOSPITAL  AT   CONSTANTINOPLE 

THE  one  bulwark  against  morbidity  was  hope  of  an 
escape.  Only  by  getting  away,  or  at  any  rate  mak- 
ing an  attempt,  could  I  justify  my  continued  exist- 
ence, when  so  many  good  men  were  dying  in  the  world 
outside — and  at  our  own  doors. 

Now  certain  spies,  as  I  have  told,  were  constantly 
on  the  lookout  for  officers  likely  to  give  trouble  to 
our  custodians.  The  commandant,  I  knew,  suspected 
me  of  wanting  to  escape,  owing  to  my  general  eager- 
ness for  exercise.  I  thought  therefore  that  if  I  could 
induce  him  to  believe  that  I  was  ready  to  dream  away 
my  days  at  Anon-kara-hissar,  I  should  have  estab- 
lished that  confidence  in  my  character  which  is  the 
basis  of  all  success.  I  consequently  purchased  some 
two  pounds  of  a  certain  dark  and  viscous  drug, 
wrapped  in  a  cabbage  leaf.  With  a  sort  of  theatrical 
secrecy  (for  even  in  Turkey  Mrs.  Grundy  has  her  say) 
I  proceeded  to  prepare  the  stuff  by  boiling  it  for  two 
hours  in  a  copper  saucepan.  I  did  this  on  a  day 
when  one  of  the  Turkish  staff  came  to  the  house  to 

106 


THE  COMIC  HOSPITAL  107 

distribute  letters.  Naturally  the  smell  attracted  no- 
tice. I  made  flimsy  excuses  to  account  for  it. 

After  distilling  the  decoction,  filtering,  and  then 
boiling  it  down  to  the  consistency  of  treacle,  the  first 
phase  of  my  little  plan  was  ended.  One  of  the  Turk- 
ish staff,  a  certain  Cypriote  youth,  had  become  thor- 
oughly interested  in  my  proceedings. 

I  showed  him,  under  vows  of  secrecy  which  I  knew 
he  would  not  keep,  the  stage  property  I  had  bought, 
consisting  of  two  bamboo  pipes,  a  little  lamp,  and  an 
assortment  of  wires  and  darning  needles  on  which 
the  opium  was  to  be  roasted.  Fortunately  the  most 
of  these  implements  I  had  obtained  second-hand,  from 
a  real  opium  smoker,  so  that  they  did  not  look  too 
new.  Also  I  had  read  De  Quincey  and  Claude  Far- 
rere.  After  discussing  the  subject  at  length,  he  sug- 
gested that  we  might  smoke  together  one  evening.  I 
agreed  with  alacrity. 

One  night  after  lock-up,  therefore,  I  slipped  out  of 
my  house,  with  my  opium  and  its  paraphernalia  hid- 
den under  my  overcoat.  A  specially  bribed  Turkish 
sentry  brought  me  to  the  Cypriote's  house  in  a  side 
street.  Here  the  door  was  opened  by  an  evil-look- 
ing harridan,  who  showed  me  up  to  a  thickly  carpeted 
room,  strewn  with  cushions,  on  which  my  host  was 
lying.  The  blinds  were  drawn  and  only  the  glimmer 
of  an  opium  lamp  lit  the  wreaths  of  smoke  which 
curled  down  from  the  low  ceiling. 


108  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

I  lay  down,  in  the  semi-darkness,  on  a  sofa  beside 
my  host.  After  some  general  conversation,  I  showed 
him  my  pipes  and  needles,  but  he  said  that  for  that 
evening  I  should  only  smoke  the  opium  of  his  brew- 
ing. 

"It  is  a  joy  to  have  found  a  fellow-spirit,"  I  sighed. 
"When  one  has  opium  one  wants  nothing  more." 

"How  many  pipes  do  you  smoke  a  day?"  he  asked. 

"Fifty,"  I  said  boldly,  adding,  "when  I  am  in  prac- 
tice." 

"That's  nothing,"  said  the  Cypriote,  "I  smoke  a 
hundred.  Come,  let  us  begin.  Time  is  empty,  ex- 
cept for  opium." 

"But  who  will  prepare  our  pipes?"  I  asked. 

"We  will  do  that  ourselves,"  he  answered. 

"I  can't,"  I  had  to  admit.  "I — I  am  used  to  an 
attendant,  who  hands  me  my  pipes  already  cooked." 

"There  is  no  one  here,"  he  said,  "except  an  ugly 
old  woman.  But  I  will  show  you  myself.  Half  the 
pleasure  is  lost  if  another  hand  prepares  the  precious 
fluid.  See,  you  take  a  drop  of  opium — so — on  the 
point  of  the  needle,  and  holding  it  over  the  flame  of 
the  lamp  you  turn  and  turn  it  gently  until  it  swells 
and  expands  and  glows  with  its  hidden  life.  From  a 
black  drop  it  changes  to  a  glowing  bubble  of  crimson. 
Then  you  cool  it  again,  moulding  and  pressing  it 
back  to  a  little  pellet  upon  the  glass  of  the  lampshade. 
Then  again  you  cook  it,  and  again  you  cool  it.  Only 


THE  COMIC  HOSPITAL  109 

experience  can  tell  when  it  is  ready  to  smoke.  It  is 
an  art,  like  other  arts.  I  would  rather  cook  opium 
than  write  a  poem.  It  is  even  belter  than  money. 
Now  you  take  your  pipe  and,  heating  the  little  hole 
through  which  the  opium  is  smoked,  so  that  it  will 
stick,  you  thrust  your  needle — so — into  the  hole,  and 
then  withdraw  it  again,  leaving  the  pellet  of  opium 
behind.  And  now,  lying  on  your  left  side,  with  your 
head  well  back  in  the  cushions,  you  hold  your  pipe 
over  the  flame  and  draw  in  a  long  and  grateful  breath. 
In  and  in  you  breathe.  .  .  ." 

I  watched  him  take  a  deep  draught  of  the  drug,  and 
then  lie  back  among  the  cushions  with  heavy-lidded 
eyes.  For  a  full  half  minute  he  remained  silent  and 
dreaming,  then  expelled  the  fumes  through  his  nos- 
trils. 

It  was  my  turn  now,  and  not  without  some  dismay 
(although  curiosity  was  probably  a  stronger  emotion) 
I  accepted  a  pipe  of  his  preparing. 

I  inhaled  in  and  in — I  choked  a  little — and  then 
lay  back  with  a  dreaminess  that  was  not  simulated, 
for  it  had  made  me  feel  giddy. 

"You  prepare  a  most  perfect  pipe,"  I  coughed 
through  clouds  of  smoke. 

But  I  had  realised  immediately  that  I  had  not  an 
opium  temperament.  In  all  I  smoked  ten  small  pipes 
that  first  evening,  without  feeling  any  ill  effects  be- 
yond vertigo  and  lassitude,  which  lasted  all  through 


110  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

the  following  day.  I  was  disappointed  and  dis- 
gusted by  the  experience.  The  beautiful  dreams  are 
a  myth.  So  also  is  the  deadly  fascination  of  the  drug. 
I  loathed  it  more  each  time  I  tasted  it. 

Yet  those  nights  I  lay  on  a  sofa,  couche  a  gauche 
as  opium  smokers  say,  weaving  a  tissue  of  deceit  into 
the  fumes  of  the  drug,  will  always  remain  one  of  the 
most  curious  memories  of  my  life.  The  couches,  the 
needles  and  the  pipes,  the  pin-point  pupils  and 
Cyprian  profile  of  my  host,  as  he  leant  over  the  green 
glimmer  of  his  opium  lamp,  the  acrid  savour  of  the 
drug,  and  the  clouds  of  this  dream  world  where 
princes  of  the  poppies  reign,  had  a  glamour  against 
the  drab  setting  of  captivity  which  I  will  neither  deny 
nor  excuse.  I  was  doing  something  practical  once 
more.  Instead  of  reading  philosophy  or  playing 
chess,  I  was  engaged  in  a  human  game,  whose  stake 
was  freedom. 

A  measure  of  success  attended  my  efforts,  for  I 
learnt  from  the  Cypriote,  in  the  course  of  subsequent 
visits  to  his  house,  that  if  I  wished  for  a  holiday  to 
Constantinople  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  arrange. 

I  think  we  were  both  playing  a  double  game,  and 
feigning  an  interest  in  the  drug  we  did  not  feel. 

We  both  tried  to  make  each  other  talk,  he  with  the 
idea  of  getting  information  about  the  camp  and  I 
in  the  hope  of  picking  up  some  hint  as  to  where  to 
hide  in  Constantinople.  But  card-sharpers  might  as 


THE  COMIC  HOSPITAL  111 

well  have  tried  to  fleece  each  other  by  the  three-card 
trick.  His  knowledge  of  Constantinople  seemed  to  be 
nil,  while  the  information  he  got  out  of  me  would  not 
have  filled  his  opium  pipe.  After  these  excursions 
I  used  sometimes  to  wonder  whether  I  was  not  wast- 
ing my  time  and  health.  But  time  is  cheap  in  cap- 
tivity, and  as  to  health,  I  used  to  counteract  the  opium 
by  counter-orgies  of  exercises.  In  the  early  morn- 
ings I  skipped  and  bathed  in  secret,  but  in  the  day- 
time I  tottered  wanly  about  the  streets,  and  whenever 
I  saw  the  Cypriote  I  told  him  that  I  craved  for  con- 
fiture: this  being  our  name  for  opium. 

In  my  condition  it  was  an  easy  matter  to  be  sent 
to  the  doctor.  I  told  him  various  astonishing  stories 
about  my  health,  chiefly  culled  from  a  French  med- 
ical work  which  I  found  in  the  waiting-room  of  his 
house.  Within  a  month  I  was  transferred  to  Haidar 
Pasha  Hospital,  near  Constantinople.  Had  I  been  in 
brutal  health  I  doubt  if  the  operation  to  my  nose, 
which  was  the  ostensible  reason  of  my  departure, 
would  have  been  considered  necessary.  But  I  had 
been  removed  from  the  category  of  suspects,  and  was 
now  considered  an  amiable  invalid. 


The  guard  on  my  northward  journey  was  more  like 
a  sick  attendant  than  a  sentry.  I  showed  him  some 
opium  pills,  which  I  declared  were  delicious  to  take. 


112  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

He  evinced  the  greatest  interest,  and  I  was  able  to 
prevail  on  him  to  swallow  two  or  three  as  an  experi- 
ment. Unfortunately,  after  he  had  taken  them,  I 
discovered  they  were  cascara  pills.  They  did  not 
send  him  to  sleep  at  all. 

We  arrived  at  Haidar  Pasha  without  incident.  Be- 
fore being  admitted,  my  effects  were  searched  and 
stored  away,  but  being  by  that  time  accustomed  to 
searches,  I  was  able  to  hide,  upon  my  person,  a 
variety  of  things  that  would  be  useful  in  an  escape, 
notably  a  compass  and  a  complete  set  of  maps  of 
Constantinople  and  its  surroundings. 

Captain  Sir  Robert  Paul,  with  whom  I  had  dis- 
cussed plans  at  Afion-kara-hissar,  was  already  in- 
stalled in  hospital,  where  he  was  being  treated  for  an 
aural  complaint.  His  friendship  was  an  inestimable 
stand-by  through  the  months  that  followed.  Through 
scenes  of  farce  and  tragedy  he  was  always  the  same 
feckless  and  fearless  spirit.  In  success,  as  in  ad- 
versity, he  kept  an  equal  mien.  Without  him,  the 
most  amusing  chapters  in  my  life  would  not  have 
happened,  and  if  I  write  "/"  in  the  pages  which  fol- 
low, it  is  only  because  Robin,  as  I  shall  hereafter 
call  him,  has  not  been  consulted  about  this  record  of 
our  days  together.  Owing  to  circumstances  beyond 
our  control,  the  full  responsibility  for  this  story  must 
be  mine.  The  seas  divide  us.  I  cannot  ask  his  help, 
or  solicit  his  approval. 


THE  COMIC  HOSPITAL  113 

The  hospital  at  Haidar  Pasha  was  the  most  de- 
lightfully casual  place  imaginable.  One  wandered 
into  one's  ward  in  a  Turkish  nightshirt,  and  wandered 
out  again  at  will:  the  only  limits  to  peregrination 
being  the  boundaries  of  the  hospital  and  one's  rather 
fantastic  dress.  Unless  one  asked  loudly  and  insist- 
ently for  medicines  or  attendance,  no  one  dreamed  of 
doing  anything  at  all  in  the  way  of  treatment.  The 
only  attention  the  patients  received  was  to  be  turned 
out  of  the  hospital  when  they  were  either  dead  or  re- 
stored to  health.  Under  the  latter  category  a  crowd 
of  invalids  came  every  day,  who  were  generally 
ejected  just  before  noon,  clamouring  loudly  for  their 
mid-day  meal,  and  the  unexpended  portion  of  their 
ration.  Of  deaths  in  hospital  I  only  witnessed  one, 
although  scores  occurred  during  my  stay.  One  eve- 
ning an  Armenian  officer  was  brought  into  my  ward, 
with  severe  wounds  in  the  head,  due  to  a  prematurely 
exploded  bomb.  He  was  laid  flat  on  a  bed  and  in- 
stantly proceeded  to  choke.  No  one  came  near  him. 
It  seemed  obvious  to  me  that  if  he  was  propped  up 
by  pillows  he  would  be  able  to  breathe.  But  no  one 
propped  him  up.  I  suggested  to  the  hospital  orderly 
that  this  should  be  done,  and  he  said,  "Yarin."  And 
"yarm"  the  poor  officer  died  of  lack  of  breath.  How 
sick  men  survived  is  a  mystery  to  me,  because  they 
were  never  attended  to  unless  strong  enough  to  scream. 
Screaming,  however,  is  a  habit  to  which  the  Turkish 


114  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

patient  is  not  averse.  He  does  not  believe  in  the 
stoical  repression  of  feeling.  Strong  and  brave  men 
will  bellow  like  bulls  while  their  wounds  are  being 
dressed.  Unless,  indeed,  one  makes  a  fuss,  no  one 
will  believe  one  is  being  hurt.  I  have  seen  mutton- 
fisted  dressers  tearing  off  bandages  by  main  force, 
while  some  unfortunate  patient  with  a  stoical  tradi- 
tion sweats  with  agony  and  bites  his  lips  in  silence. 

But  although  the  Turk  cries  out,  he  is  by  no  means 
a  coward  under  the  knife.  His  stern  and  simple 
faith  seems  to  help  him  here.  There  is  something 
very  fine  about  a  good  Moslem's  readiness  for  death. 
No  man  who  knows  the  religion,  or  has  lived  inti- 
mately among  Mohammedans,  can  fail  to  give  it  rever- 
ence. Before  God  all  men  are  equal,  and  when  one 
walks  about  in  a  nightshirt,  one  begins  to  realise  this 
fundamental  truth.  There  was  a  great  friendliness 
in  that  hospital,  and  a  cordiality  that  coloured  the 
otherwise  sordid  surroundings.  Poor  jettison  of  the 
war,  broken  with  fighting,  or  rotten  with  disease,  or 
shamming  sick,  we  foregathered  in  the  corridors,  or 
in  the  garden,  with  no  thought  for  the  external  ad- 
vantages of  rank  and  fortune. 

Matches  at  that  time  had  practically  disappeared 
from  Turkey,  and  whenever  one  issued  from  the  ward 
with  a  cigarette  between  one's  lips  one  was  beset  by 
invalids  in  search  of  a  light.  Who  lit  the  original 
vestal  fire  I  do  not  know,  but  I  am  sure  it  was  never 


THE  COMIC  HOSPITAL  115 

extinguished  in  that  hospital.  Patients  smoked  and 
talked  all  night. 

We  took  our  part  with  pleasure  in  this  picnic  life. 
Robin,  with  remarkable  skill,  had  contrived  to 
smuggle  in  various  forbidden  bottles  which  contrib- 
uted greatly  to  our  popularity.  One  drink  espe- 
cially, from  its  innocuous  appearance  and  stimulating 
properties,  found  great  favour  amongst  the  patients. 
It  was  known  as  "Iran,"  and  consisted  of  equal  parts 
of  sour  milk  and  brandy.  A  teetotaler  might  safely 
be  seen  with  a  long  glass  of  creamy-looking  milk,  yet 
Omar  Khayyam  himself  would  not  have  despised  a 
jug  of  it.  Imbibing  this,  we  used  to  hold  polyglot 
pow-wows  with  the  patients  in  French,  German, 
Arabic,  Italian,  and  Turkish.  Sugar  and  tea  from 
our  parcels  also  did  much  to  promote  cordiality. 

The  recent  explosion  in  Haidar  Pasha  station, 
which  blew  out  all  the  windows  of  our  (adjacent) 
hospital,  and  the  first  British  air-raid  of  1918  were 
frequent  topics  of  discussion.  With  regard  to  these 
events  we  invented  a  beautiful  lie  that  the  station  ex- 
plosions were  the  result  of  bombardment  by  a  new 
type  of  submarine  we  possessed,  but  that  per  contra, 
the  first  air-raid,  which  did  no  damage,  was  not  car- 
ried out  by  British  aircraft  at  all.  We  proved  by  as- 
sorted arguments  in  various  languages  that  the  bombs 
on  Constantinople  had  come  from  German  aeroplanes, 
the  raid  being  a  display  of  Hun  frightfulness,  to  show 


116  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

what  would  happen  if  Turkish  allegiance  wavered 
over  the  thorny  question  of  the  disposal  of  the  Black 
Sea  fleet.  Nothing  was  too  improbable  to  be  true  in 
Constantinople,  and  nothing  indeed  was  too  absurd 
to  be  possible.  Enver  Pasha  had  made  a  monopoly 
in  milk,  and  a  corner  in  velvet.  The  new  Sultan  was 
intriguing  for  the  downfall  of  the  Young  Turks.  The 
funds  of  the  Committee  of  Union  and  Progress  had 
been  sent  to  Switzerland,  where  a  Turkish  pound  pur- 
chased thirteen  francs  of  Swiss  security,  or  half  its 
face  value.  Fortunes  were  won  and  lost  on  the 
meteoric  fluctuations  of  paper  money.  A  lunatic  in- 
mate of  the  hospital  (formerly  a  Smyrniote  financier, 
driven  to  despair  by  the  press  gang)  told  me  that 
he  could  make  a  million  on  the  bourse  if  they  only 
set  him  free  for  a  day,  and  I  daresay  he  was  right. 
Anything  might  have  happened  during  those  summer 
days.  Secret  presses  were  engaged  in  printing 
broad-sheets  of  revolution.  The  nearer  the  Germans 
came  to  Paris  the  more  persistent  were  the  stories  of 
their  defeat.  The  air  was  electric  with  rumours. 
The  story  about  German  aeroplanes  bombing  Con- 
stantinople which  we  had  started  in  jest  was  retailed 
to  us,  later,  in  all  earnestness,  and  with  every  detail 
to  give  it  probability.  Anything  to  the  discredit  of 
their  ally  found  currency  in  the  Turkish  capital. 

An  Ottoman  cadet  in  my  ward,  for  instance,  used 
to  impersonate  a  German  officer  ordering  his  dinner 


THE  COMIC  HOSPITAL  117 

in  a  Turkish  restaurant.  He  managed  somehow  to 
convey  the  swagger,  and  the  stays,  and  the  stiff  neck. 
Clattering  his  sword  behind  him,  he  used  to  seat  him- 
self stiffly  at  a  table  and  call  haughtily  for  a  waiter. 
Then,  after  glaring  at  the  menu,  he  used  to  order — 
a  dish  of  haricot  beans.  "Des  haricots,"  he  used  to 
snap,  with  hand  on  sword-hilt  in  the  exact  and  in- 
variable Prussian  manner. 

But  to  the  last,  the  Germans  were  all  unconscious 
of  what  went  on  behind  their  corseted  backs.  Only 
at  the  time  of  the  armistice,  when  they  were  pelted 
with  rotten  vegetables,  did  they  realise  that  something 
was  amiss. 

To  return  to  our  hospital.  Our  day  began  with 
rice  and  broth  at  six  in  the  morning.  At  nine  the 
visiting  doctor  made  his  rounds  and  the  patients  who 
needed  medicines  clamoured  for  them.  Unless  one 
made  a  fuss,  however,  one  was  left  in  perfect  peace. 
At  mid-day  there  was  more  rice  and  broth,  with  .oc- 
casional lumps  of  meat.  The  afternoon  was  devoted 
to  sleep,  and  the  evenings  to  exercise  in  the  garden, 
or  intrigue.  Rice  and  broth  concluded  the  day. 
This  sounds  dull,  but  after  two  years  of  prison  life, 
the  hours  seemed  as  crowded  as  a  London  season's. 
To  begin  with,  we  did  not  attempt  to  subsist  on  hos- 
pital fare,  but  commissioned  various  orderlies  and 
friends  to  buy  us  food  outside.  Then  there  was  the 
never-failing  interest  of  making  plans.  A  certain 


118  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

person  raised  our  hopes  to  the  zenith  by  telling  us  of 
the  possibility  of  a  boat  calling  for  us  at  night,  at  a 
landing  place  just  below  the  British  cemetery.  The 
idea  was  to  embark  in  this  boat,  row  across  to  a 
steamer,  and  there  enter  large  sealed  boxes  in  which 
we  would  pass  the  customs  up  the  Bosporus,  and 
then  make  Odessa.  The  plan  was  almost  complete. 
The  shipping  people  had  been  squared.  It  only  re- 
mained for  us  to  select  the  spot  from  which  to  embark. 
With  this  object  in  view,  we  reconnoitred  the  British 
cemetery,  which  abutted  on  to  the  hospital  grounds. 
It  was  then  being  used  as  an  anti-aircraft  station,  and 
when,  a  few  days  later,  the  first  air-raid  came,  we 
saw  the  exact  positions  of  the  Turkish  machine  guns, 
spitting  lead  at  our  aircraft  from  among  the  Crimean 
graves.  This  air-raid,  and  the  atmosphere  of  "fright- 
fulness"  caused  thereby,  rather  interfered  with  our 
escape  plans.  First  of  all  we  were  forbidden  to  go 
near  the  British  cemetery,  and  later  other  small 
privileges  were  curtailed  which  greatly  "cramped  our 
style."  For  some  time  we  could  not  get  in  touch  with 
the  person  already  alluded  to. 

Meanwhile  the  arrival  of  our  aeroplanes  was  a 
very  stimulating  sight.  Everyone  in  hospital  turned 
out  to  see  the  show. 

Crump!     Crump!     Woof!  said  the  bombs. 

Woo — woo — woom!  answered  the  Archies. 


THE  COMIC  HOSPITAL  119 

Kk — kk — kk — kk!  chattered  the  machine  guns. 

"God  is  great,"  muttered  the  hospital  staff. 

"Give  me  a  gun!"  cried  one  of  the  two  British  of- 
ficers posing  as  lunatics  (I  have  already  related  how 
they  had  pretended  to  hang  themselves) — "Give  me 
a  gun,"  he  reiterated  loudly — "this  is  all  a  plot  to 
kill  me,  and  I  must  defend  myself!" 

Calmly  and  confidently  our  machines  sailed  through 
the  barrage,  dropped  their  bombs,  turned  to  have  a 
look  at  Constantinople,  and  then  sailed  away. 

The  British  lunatic  shook  his  fist  at  them,  as  he 
was  led  back  gibbering  to  his  ward.  The  head  doc- 
tor was  much  concerned  as  to  his  condition. 

"Every  day,"  he  told  me — "some  new  madness 
takes  him.  Eighteen  pounds  were  paid  to  him  re- 
cently and  he  promptly  tore  the  notes  in  half  and 
scattered  them  about  the  room.  When  he  was  asked 
if  he  wanted  anything  from  the  embassy  he  wrote 
for  a  ton  of  carbolic  soap  and  half  a  ton  of  chocolate. 
On  another  occasion  he  jumped  into  the  hospital  pond 
with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  declaring  he  was  on  fire. 
I  dare  not  send  him  to  England  without  an  escort, 
for  he  would  do  himself  some  injury.  As  to  the 
other  British  lunatic,  he  has  not  spoken  for  five  weeks. 
I  do  not  know  what  is  to  be  done." 

Neither  did  I,  for  I  was  not  then  aware  of  the  pa- 
tients' true  condition,  and  had  no  desire  to  "butt  in." 


120  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

They  had  lived  for  several  months  among  the  other 
lunatics  in  hospital,  and  I  thought  it  probable  that 
they  really  were  mad. 

The  lunatics'  ward  was  a  terrifying  place.  My 
experience  of  it,  although  limited  to  a  few  hours, 
was  enough  to  last  a  life  time.  In  order  to  secure 
drugs  for  "doping"  sentries  I  complained  of  severe 
insomnia  one  day,  and  was  sent  to  the  mental  special- 
ist While  waiting  for  him  I  noticed  that  one  of  the 
British  lunatics  was  regarding  me  with  unblinking, 
furious  eyes,  while  the  other  was  praying — appar- 
ently for  the  souls  of  the  damned.  The  Greek  finan- 
cier was  singing  softly  to  himself,  and  applauding 
himself.  There  is  something  very  alarming  about 
madness.  One  feels  suddenly  and  closely  what  a 
narrow  margin  divides  us  from  a  world  of  terror. 
Their  souls  stand  forlornly  by  their  bodies,  knocking 
at  the  door  of  intelligence. 

When  the  mental  specialist  arrived,  I  was  seized 
by  grave  alarm.  What  if  he  should  find  me  in- 
sane? .  .  . 

He  held  up  a  finger,  tracing  patterns  in  the  air, 
and  told  me  to  watch  it  closely.  While  I  watched 
him,  he  watched  me. 

"The  moving  finger  writes,"  I  thought,  "and  hav- 
ing writ  .  .  ." 

"I  can  see  your  finger  perfectly,"  I  protested  ner- 
vously. 


THE  COMIC  HOSPITAL  121 

"Far  from  it,"  said  the  enthusiastic  specialist. 
"You  are  not  following  it  with  your  eyes." 

"I  am — indeed  I  am,"  said  I,  squinting  at  his  fat 
forefinger. 

"I  am  told  you  cannot  sleep,"  continued  my  in- 
terlocutor. "You  seem  to  me  to  be  suffering  from 
nervous  exhaustion." 

"A  little  sleeping  draught  ..."  I  suggested. 

"I  ought  to  observe  you  for  a  few  days,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"Not  here?"  I  quavered. 

"Yes,  here." 

"But  I  do  not  like  the — the  other  lunatics,"  said 
I,  in  a  small  voice. 

Eventually,  to  my  great  delight,  I  was  allowed  to 
remain  where  I  was,  and  was  given  (as  reward  for 
the  danger  I  had  endured)  several  cachets  of  bromide 
and  a  few  tablets  of  trional. 

I  returned  in  triumph  to  my  ward,  and  Robin  and 
I  laid  our  heads  together.  With  the  drugs  we  now 
possessed  it  would  be  possible  to  send  our  sentries  to 
sleep  when  we  were  moved  from  hospital,  if  the  per- 
son who  was  making  plans  for  us  to  be  taken  on  board 
a  Black  Sea  steamer  failed  to  communicate  in  time. 
But  the  question  now  arose  as  to  how  much  of  these 
drugs  was  suitable  for  the  Turkish  constitution.  The 
object  was  to  administer  a  sleeping  draught,  not  a 
fatal  dose.  If  we  were  transferred  from  Haidar 


122  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

Pasha,  we  knew  we  should  be  sent  for  a  time  to  the 
garrison  camp  of  Psamattia  (a  suburb  of  Constanti- 
nople on  the  European  side)  and  our  intention  was 
to  inveigle  our  attendants  into  having  lunch  during 
our  journey  there,  and  ply  them  with  Pilsener  beer, 
suitably  prepared,  until  they  were  somnolent  and 
unsuspicious  enough  to  make  it  feasible  to  bolt. 

Neither  the  bromide  nor  the  trional  could  be  tasted 
in  cocoa  or  coffee,  we  discovered,  so  one  evening,  I 
regret  to  say,  I  carried  out  an  experiment  on  a 
wounded  patient,  who  was  otherwise  quite  fit,  although 
rather  sleepless,  by  giving  him  a  cachet  of  bromide 
and  a  tablet  of  trional  in  a  cup  of  cocoa.  In  about 
half  an  hour  his  eyelids  began  to  flicker,  and  he  was 
soon  sleeping  like  a  lamb.  Next  morning  he  com- 
plained of  a  slight  headache.  Should  he  chance  to 
read  these  lines  I  hope  he  will  accept  my  apologies. 
A  la  guerre  comme  a  la  guerre. 

So  now  we  had  the  beginning  of  a  second  plan, 
in  case  the  box  business  via  the  Black  Sea  failed. 
But,  in  the  event  of  escaping  during  our  journey  to 
Psamattia,  we  had  no  very  clear  idea  of  where  to 
hide.  That  there  were  Greek  and  Jewish  quarters 
in  Galata  and  in  Pera  we  knew,  and  also  in  the  north- 
ern part  of  Stamboul,  but  the  chances  of  detection 
in  any  of  these  localities  were  great,  especially  as  we 
had  no  disguises  at  the  time.  There  remained  a  pos- 
sibility of  hiding  in  the  ruins  of  recent  fires,  but  it 


THE  COMIC  HOSPITAL  123 

was  difficult  to  see  how  we  were  to  live  there.  On 
the  whole  the  Black  Sea  trip  seemed  the  most  favour- 
able chance.  But  to  carry  it  out,  we  had  to  wait,  and 
wait,  and  still  wait  until  we  heard  from  our  agent 
again.  Now  a  week  or  two  is  nothing  in  Turkey,  but 
unfortunately  we  had  attracted  a  certain  amount  of 
undesirable  attention  in  hospital  by  our  popular 
supper-parties  and  reputed  wealth.  There  was  also 
a  Bulgarian  nurse  who  had  an  uncanny  intuition  about 
our  intentions.  She  told  the  visiting  doctor  that  two 
other  nurses  were  in  the  habit  of  bringing  us  brandy. 
She  also  said  we  were  both  quite  well  and  had  never 
in  fact  been  ill  at  all.  The  latter  statement  was  true, 
but  th»  former  I  can  only  attribute  to  pique,  the 
brandy  having  come  from  other  sources.  However, 
this  did  not  affect  the  fact  that  we  were  politely  but 
firmly  told  that  we  had  greatly  benefited  by  our  stay 
in  hospital.  This  was  equivalent  to  a  notice  of  dis- 
missal. Thereupon  we  both  instantly  pulled  very 
long  faces,  and  went  to  see  the  ear  and  nose  specialist. 
He  was  our  one  hope  of  being  allowed  to  stay  on. 

While  waiting  for  an  interview,  I  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  seeing  an  eminent  army  surgeon  at  work 
on  the  Turkish  soldiers.  Let  me  preface  this  descrip- 
tion by  emphasising  the  fact  that  he  was  eminent. 
He  was  no  rough  bungler,  but  a  clever  practitioner, 
well  known  for  his  professional  and  human  sympathy. 
This  is  the  scene  I  saw. 


124  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

The  doctor  sat  on  a  high  stool  by  the  window,  with 
a  round  reflector  over  his  right  eye.  A  glass  table 
beside  him  was  strewn  with  instruments.  A  lower 
stool  seated  his  victims.  In  his  hand  he  held  a  thing 
like  a  small  glove-stretcher.  Behind  him,  two  as- 
sistants stood,  looking  like  choir  boys  who  had  been 
fighting,  in  their  robes  of  blood-stained  white.  The 
room  was  full  of  miserable,  shivering  soldiers. 

A  deaf  old  man  takes  the  vacant  seat  in  front  of 
the  doctor.  The  glove-stretcher  darts  into  his  ear.  A 
question  is  asked.  The  old  man  gibbers  in  reply. 
Glove-stretcher  darts  into  the  other  ear.  Another 
question.  More  gibbering.  Both  his  ears  are  soundly 
boxed,  and  he  is  sent  away.  The  next  is  a  goitre 
case,  too  unpleasant  for  description.  Suddenly  the 
attendants  come  forward  and  pull  off  all  his  clothes. 
The  doctor  removes  the  reflector  from  his  right  eye, 
and  stares  for  a  moment  at  the  ghastly  skinny  shape 
with  a  sack  hanging  from  its  throat.  Then  he  dictates 
a  prescription  to  one  of  the  attendants,  and  seizes 
the  next  soldier.  Prescription  and  clothes  are  thrown 
at  the  naked  man,  who  walks  out  shivering,  holding 
his  apparel  in  his  arms.  Another  victim  is  already 
trembling  on  the  stool.  This  man  trembles  so  vio- 
lently that  he  falls  down  in  a  faint.  The  attendants 
cuff  him  back  to  consciousness.  Painfully  he  gets 
up,  and  tries  to  face  the  instrument  again.  But  as 
the  glove-stretcher  is  being  inserted  into  his  nostril, 


THE  COMIC  HOSPITAL  125 

he  turns  the  colour  of  weak  tea  and  again  silently 
collapses.  The  doctor  does  not  give  him  a  second 
look.  One  of  the  attendants  drags  his  limp  body  to 
a  corner,  while  another  patient  takes  the  seat  in  front 
of  the  doctor.  After  a  few  more  cases  have  been 
examined,  the  two  attendants  drag  back  the  uncon- 
scious man  to  the  doctor  and  hold  his  lolling  head 
to  the  light  while  the  glove-stretcher  does  its  work. 
Then  he  is  pulled  away,  like  a  dummy  from  an 
arena,  to  the  door  of  the  consulting  room,  where 
(and  here  I  confess  I  expected  a  scene)  a  woman  who 
was  obviously  his  sister  awaited  him.  But  she 
seemed  to  consider  it  all  in  the  day's  work.  Perhaps 
poor  Willie  was  subject  to  fainting  fits.  .  .  . 

I  knew  I  would  not  faint,  but  I  cannot  say  I  took 
my  turn  on  that  seat  with  a  light  heart.  The  surgeon 
was  alarmingly  sudden,  and  already  the  room  looked 
like  a  shambles. 

To  my  relief,  he  used  a  new  glove-stretcher. 

"Slightly  deflected  septum,"  he  pronounced,  and 
his  diagnosis  was  later  confirmed  in  London. 

"I  hurt  my  nose  boxing,"  I  explained  conversation- 
ally, "and  cannot  now  breathe  through  it.  I  would 
like  to  stay — " 

"Can't  stay  here,"  he  said  instantly  and  incisively; 
"no  time  to  deal  with  your  case." 

"But  I  can't  breathe  through  my  nose." 


126  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

"Breathe  through  your  mouth,"  he  suggested 
kindly,  but  a  little  coldly. 

Now,  it  is  impossible  to  "wangle"  a  man  who  sits 
over  you  with  a  reflecting  mirror  screwed  into  his 
right  eye.  I  vanished  with  suitable  thanks. 

Robin  had  better  luck  with  his  ear.  He  could  have 
stayed  on  in  hospital,  and  would  very  likely  have 
been  invalided  back  to  England  eventually.  But  he 
absolutely  refused  to  exchange  the  comfortable  se- 
curity of  a  bodily  affliction  for  the  vivider  joys  of 
escape.  In  spite  of  my  advice  to  stay  in  hospital, 
he  decided,  to  my  great  delight,  that  we  would  try 
our  luck  together. 

All  hope  of  staying  in  hospital  was  now  at  an  end. 

That  evening  at  sunset  we  were  in  the  garden,  look- 
ing across  the  blue  waters  of  the  Marmora  to  the 
mosques  and  minarets  of  old  Stamboul,  flushed  with 
the  loveliest  tints  of  pink. 

It  was  the  last  evening  but  one  of  Ramazan.  To- 
morrow the  crescent  of  the  new  moon  would  appear 
over  the  dome  of  San  Sofia,  as  a  sign  to  all  that  the 
fast  had  ended,  and  the  time  of  rejoicing  come.  Be- 
tween that  moon  and  the  next  moon  an  unknown  fate 
lay  before  us.  But  whatever  it  was,  it  was  sure  to  be 
something  exciting. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

OUR   FIRST   ESCAPE 

OUR  crossing  from  Haidar  Pasha  to  the  garrison  camp 
at  Psamattia  was  a  tame  affair.  Early  in  the  day  we 
decided  that  it  would  be  unwise  to  escape,  as  well  as 
unkind  to  our  indulgent  sentries:  unwise,  because  we 
realised  that  if  we  bolted  blindly  from  a  restaurant, 
we  would  probably  be  caught  at  the  first  lodging 
house  at  which  we  tried  to  gain  admission;  and  unkind 
because,  in  common  chivalry,  we  decided  that  our 
sentries  were  too  trustful  to  be  drugged. 

Our  day,  therefore,  was  spent  in  seeing  the  sights 
of  Pera,  gossiping  over  a  cocktail  bar,  purchasing 
some  illicit  maps  under  cover  of  a  large  quantity  of 
German  publications,  and  generally  learning  the  lie 
of  the  land.  But  it  might  be  indiscreet  even  at 
this  distance  of  time  to  describe  in  too  great  detail 
the  sources  from  which  we  obtained  our  information. 
One  name,  however — like  King  Charles'  head  with 
Mr.  Dick — will  keep  coming  into  this  book.  I  can- 
not keep  it  out,  because  it  is  impossible  to  think  of 
my  escape  and  escapades  without  thinking  of  the 
gallant  lady  who  made  them  possible. 

Miss  Whitaker,  as  she  then  was,  now  Lady  Paul, 
127 


128  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

knew  something  about  all  the  escapes  which  took  place 
in  Turkey,  and  a  great  deal  about  a  great  many  of 
them.  Against  every  kind  of  difficulty  from  foes 
and  constant  discouragement  from  friends  1  sk~  boldly 
championed  the  cause  of  our  prisoners  through  the 
dark  days  of  1916  and  1917.  She  visited  the  sick 
in  hospital,  she  carried  plum  puddings  to  our  men 
working  at  San  Stefano,  she  was  a  never  failing  source 
of  sympathy  and  encouragement.  She  sent  messages 
for  us,  and  wrote  letters,  and  lent  us  money  and 
clothes.  She  was  the  good  angel  of  the  English  at 
Constantinople,  a  second — and  more  fortunate — Miss 
Cavell. 

And  she  was  the  dea  ex  machina  of  my  escapes. 
Having  said  this,  I  will  say  one  thing  more.  I  can- 
not here  put  down  one  tenth  of  the  daring  work  that 
Lady  Paul  did  for  me  and  others.  The  reason  may 
be  obvious  to  the  reader;  at  any  rate  it  is  binding  on 
me  to  say  far  less  than  I  would  wish. 

On  reaching  the  prisoners'  camp  at  Psamattia,  our 

1This  applies  in  no  way  to  the  Americans,  who  did  everything 
possible  for  our  men  before  they  left  Constantinople.  Their  assist- 
ance was  always  of  the  most  prompt  and  practical  nature.  It  may 
be  invidious  to  mention  names  in  this  light  account  of  adventure,  but 
I  cannot  refrain  from  giving  myself  the  pleasure  of  saying  how  grate- 
ful I  am  to  Mr.  Hoffman  Phillips,  of  the  American  Embassy.  His 
name,  as  also  the  name  of  his  chief,  Mr.  Morgenthau,  is  indissolubly 
connected  with  our  early  prisoners.  I  wish  to  thank  him  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart,  and  I  know  many  of  all  ranks  who  will  join 
with  me  in  this — far  too  meagre — tribute  to  his  activities  and  ability. 


OUR  FIRST  ESCAPE  129 

first  object  was  to  get  in  touch  with  her  whom  we  had 
already  heard  of  as  the  guardian  spirit  of  prisoners. 
With  this  object  in  view,  we  asked  to  be  allowed  to 
attend  Sunday  service  at  the  English  church.  Re- 
ligious worship,  we  pointed  out,  should  not  be  inter- 
fered with,  further  than  the  necessities  of  war  de- 
manded. After  some  demur,  the  commandant 
agreed,  and  accordingly  we  went  to  church.  Here 
it  was  *  that  we  met  our  guardian  angel  for  the  first 
time.  She  trembled  visibly  when  we  mentioned  our 
plans  for  escape,  and  I  thought  (little  knowing  her) 
that  we  had  been  rash  to  speak  so  frankly. 

"I  strongly  advise  delay,"  she  whispered — "but 
I  will  meet  you  again  at  the  gardens  in  Stamboul 
in  two  days'  time — four  o'clock — I'll  be  reading  a — " 

"Haide,  effendim,  haide,  haide"  said  our  sentry, 
and  her  last  words  were  lost. 

Further  conversation  was  impossible,  but  the  forty- 
eight  hours  which  followed  were  vivid  with  anticipa- 
tion. 

How  were  we  to  manage  to  get  to  the  gardens  of 
the  Seraglio?  Would  we  meet  her?  Could  we  talk 
to  her?  Would  she  have  a  plan?  .  .  . 

1  Another  footnote.  Let  no  one  think  the  clergyman  in  charge  aided 
or  abetted  our  secular  efforts  to  escape.  On  the  contrary,  on  a  later 
occasion,  when  Robin,  as  a  poor  and  distressed  prisoner  hiding  from 
the  Turks,  endeavoured  to  find  sanctuary  for  a  few  hours  in  the 
church,  he  was  expelled  therefrom,  so  that  our  enemies  should  not 
complain  that  the  House  of  God  was  used  for  anything  but  worship. 


130  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

On  the  day  appointed,  Robin  and  I  complained  of 
toothache,  and  asked  to  be  allowed  to  go  in  to  the  city 
to  see  the  dentist.  We  were  at  once  granted  per- 
mission. 

From  the  dentist's  to  the  Seraglio  garden  was  only 
a  step,  but  we  were  four  hours  too  early  as  yet  to 
keep  the  rendezvous.  However,  a  large  lunch,  in 
which  our  sentries  shared,  smoothed  the  way  for  a 
little  shopping  excursion  into  Pera.  Here,  amongst 
other  things,  we  bought  some  black  hair  dye,  which 
completed  our  arrangements  for  escape.  Other  para- 
phernalia, such  as  jack-knives,  twenty  fathoms  of  rope, 
maps,  compasses,  sandshoes,  chocolate,  and  "dope," 
we  had  already  acquired.  Nothing  now  remained  but 
to  find  a  hiding  place  when  once  we  had  escaped. 

At  about  three  o'clock  we  were  sitting  in  a  cafe, 
eating  ices,  with  our  complacent  sentries,  who  had 
every  reason  to  be  complacent,  for  they  had  been 
sumptuously  fed,  as  well  as  liberally  tipped.  They 
were  quite  willing  to  do  anything  in  reason,  and  noth- 
ing could  have  been  more  natural  than  a  g*roll  in 
the  Seraglio  gardens. 

But  just  then  Robin  began  to  get  "Spanish  'flu," 
which  was  raging  in  the  city.  The  symptoms  were  as 
sudden  as  they  were  unmistakeable.  Violent  shiver- 
ing, giddiness,  weakness — all  the  ills  that  flesh  is 
heir  to  waylaid  him  at  this  vital  juncture.  He  was 
quite  hors  de  combat. 


OUR  FIRST  ESCAPE  131 

There  was  no  help  for  it.  I  left  him  shaking  and 
shivering  in  the  cafe,  in  charge  of  one  of  our  two 
sentries,  and  after  a  little  persuasion  and  some 
palaver  (during  the  course  of  which  another  bank 
note  changed  hands)  I  induced  the  other  sentry  to 
accompany  me  for  a  stroll.  Unless  we  walked  in 
the  gardens,  I  assured  him,  we  should  both  fall  ill 
with  the  deadly  contagion  of  my  friend.  Nothing 
but  fresh  air  and  iced  beer  could  avert  that  fever. 
On  the  way,  therefore,  we  stopped  for  a  glass  and  I 
managed  to  drop  a  small  dose  of  potassium  bromide 
into  the  sentry's  mug  before  it  was  given  to  him. 

A  little  before  four  the  sentry  and  I  were  smoking 
cigarettes  on  a  seat  in  the  Seraglio  gardens,  quite  close 
to  the  Stamboul  entrance  gate. 

It  was  a  hot  day,  with  thunder  clouds  hanging  low. 
Toilers  of  the  city  passed  us  fanning  themselves. 
Turkish  officers  had  pushed  back  their  heavy  fur  f ezzes 
and  civilians  wore  handkerchiefs  behind  theirs:  Ger- 
man ladies  panted  loudly,  and  even  the  hanoums 
appeared  to  be  a  little  jaded:  their  small  feet  and 
great  eyes,  that  so  often  twinkle  in  the  streets,  had 
grown  dull  with  the  oppression  of  the  day.  Small 
wonder  my  sentry  nodded. 

Presently,  with  a  walk  that  no  one  could  mistake,  a 
tall  and  slim  figure  entered,  dressed  in  white  serge  coat 
and  skirt.  I  watched  her,  on  the  opposite  foot-path, 
strolling  down  the  shady  avenue  with  an  insouciant 


132  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

grace.  She  held  a  novel  and  a  little  tasselled  bag 
in  her  right  hand.  She  sat  down  some  two  hundred 
yards  away,  and  began  reading  calmly  and  coolly, 
apparently  quite  unconscious  of  the  feverish  world 
about  her. 

With  a  hasty  glance  at  my  sentry,  I  rose  and  walked 
very  slowly  away.  He  woke  at  once  and  followed. 
I  stopped  to  look  at  some  flowers,  yawned,  lit  an- 
other cigarette,  and  said  to  the  sentry  that  it  was  too 
hot  to  walk.  I  intended  to  sit  for  a  little  in  the  shade 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road,  and  then  we  would 
return  to  our  friend  at  the  cafe. 

We  meandered  across,  and  I  sank  into  the  seat 
beside  the  guardian  angel.  There  was  no  room  for 
the  sentry,  so  he  obligingly  retired  into  the  shrubbery 
behind. 

Without  taking  her  eyes  from  her  novel,  she  opened 
conversation  by  saying  I  was  not  to  look  at  her,  and 
that  I  was  to  speak  very  low,  looking  in  the  opposite 
direction.  She  then  asked  where  my  companion  was, 
and  on  hearing  he  had  the  'flu,  she  told  me  that  she 
also  had  been  attacked  by  it  at  the  very  moment  that 
we  had  spoken  to  her  at  church,  and  that  it  was  only 
with  difficulty  she  had  been  able  to  keep  the  rendezvous 
to-day.  I  tried  to  thank  her  for  coming,  but  she  kept 
strictly  to  business,  and  concentrated  our  conversation 
to  bare  facts.  Her  news  ranged  from  the  world  at 
war  to  plans  for  Robin  and  me,  in  vivid  glimpses  of 


OUR  FIRST  ESCAPE  133 

possibility.  She  covered  continents  in  a  phrase  and 
dealt  with  the  plans  of  two  captives  in  terse  but 
sympathetic  comment.  "When  she  had  told  me  what 
she  wanted  to  say,  she  opened  her  small  bag  and  took 
out  a  piece  of  paper,  rolled  up  tight,  which  she  flicked 
across  to  me  without  a  moment's  hesitation. 

"You  had  better  go  now,"  she  said. 

But  my  heart  was  brimming  over  with  things  unsaid. 

"I  simply  cannot  thank — "  I  began  to  stammer. 

"Don't!"  said  she,  to  the  novel  on  her  knees. 

And  so,  with  no  salute  to  mark  the  great  occasion,  I 
left  her.  Neither  of  us  had  seen  the  other's  face. 

Here  I  must  apologise  for  purposely  clouding  the 
narrative.  The  plans  I  made  are  only  public  so  far 
as  they  concern  myself. 

On  rejoining  Robin,  I  found  him  palpitant  and 
perturbed.  The  fever  was  at  its  height  and  he  ought 
to  have  been  in  bed.  Yet  it  was  urgently  necessary 
that  evening,  before  returning,  to  make  certain  inves- 
tigations in  the  native  quarter  of  the  city.  How  to 
do  this  without  attracting  the  notice  of  the  two  sen- 
tries, perspiring  but  still  perceptive,  was  a  matter  of 
great  concern  to  me.  I  thought  of  saying  that  I  was 
going  to  buy  medicine  for  Robin,  but  in  that  case 
one  of  the  sentries  (probably  Robin's,  for  my  own 
had  grown  very  somnolent  with  beer  and  bromide) 
would  certainly  accompany  me.  Then  I  bethought 
me  of  going  to  wash  my  hands  in  the  back  of  the  cafe 


134  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

and  slipping  out  of  a  back  door.  But  there  was  no 
back  door,  and  Robin's  sentry  had  followed  me  to 
the  washplace,  and  stood  stolidly  by  the  door  until 
I  came  out. 

I  sat  down  again,  thinking  and  perspiring  furi- 
ously,1 and  ordered  more  beer.  But  this  time  I  failed 
to  manipulate  the  bromide.  Robin's  sentry  saw  me 
with  the  packet  in  my  hand  and  asked  me  what  it  was. 

"It  is  a  medicine  for  reducing  fat,"  said  I,  and  of 
course  after  this  I  had  to  keep  the  drugged  beer  for 
myself.  But  the  sedative  did  no  harm.  After 
sipping  for  some  minutes  I  had  a  happy  thought. 

There  was  a  particular  brand  of  cigarettes,  which 
were  only  obtainable  at  a  few  shops  in  Constantinople. 
I  asked  the  waiter  if  he  had  them.  He  had  not. 

"I  must  have  a  packet,"  I  said,  standing  up — "there 
is  a  shop  just  down  the  street  where  I  can  get  them." 

And  without  taking  my  hat  or  stick  (as  a  proof 
of  the  innocence  of  my  intentions)  I  strolled  out  of 
the  cafe. 

The  sentries  did  not  follow.     It  was  too  hot. 

I  rushed  down  the  crowded  thoroughfare  as  if  all 
the  hounds  of  heaven  were  on  my  trail.  I  fled  past 
policemen,  dodged  a  tram,  bolted  up  a  side  street,  and 
arrived  gasping  at  the  doorway  I  sought.  After  a 
hasty  survey  of  the  locality,  so  as  to  identify  it  again 
at  need,  I  rushed  back  to  the  restaurant,  buying  a 

1  During  the  afternoon  I  lost  over  seven  pounds  in  weight 


OUR  FIRST  ESCAPE  135 

box  of  Bafra-Madene  cigarettes  on  the  way.  Robin 
was  still  shivering,  the  sentries  were  mopping  their 
large  faces.  All  was  well.  Our  work  was  done. 

Trying  not  to  look  triumphant,  I  got  Robin  into  a 
cab  and  we  drove  back  to  Psamattia  camp. 

During  the  next  few  days  I  thoroughly  enjoyed 
myself.  Not  so  Robin,  who  was  grappling  with  his 
fever.  Later,  however,  when  he  was  convalescent, 
we  used  to  go  down  to  the  seashore  together  to  bathe. 
In  the  evening,  we  used  to  sup  off  lobsters  at  a  res- 
taurant on  the  beach.  In  the  water  one  felt  almost 
free  once  more,  and  in  the  restaurant,  when  one  was 
not  gambling  "double  or  quits"  with  the  lobster-mer- 
chant as  to  whether  we  should  pay  him  two  pounds 
for  his  lobster  or  nothing  at  all,  we  were  talking 
politics  with  other  diners.  Those  days  of  Robin's 
convalescence  were  delightful.  The  moon  was  near 
its  full,  which  is  the  season  when  lobsters  ought  to 
be  eaten,  and  the  climate  was  perfect,  and  our  hopes 
were  high. 

Psamattia  is  one  of  the  most  westerly  suburbs  of 
Stamboul.  From  it,  a  maze  of  tortuous  streets  lead 
to  the  railway  terminus  of  Sirkedji,  and  the  Galata 
Bridge  over  the  Golden  Horn.  On  the  eastern  side 
of  the  Golden  Horn  lie  the  European  quarters  of 
Galata  and  Pera.  From  our  camp  at  Psamattia  to 
the  house  where  we  intended  to  hide  was  a  distance 


136  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

of  five  miles,  and  there  were  at  least  two  police  posts 
on  the  way.  But  with  our  hair  dyed  black  (we  had 
already  effected  this  transformation,  and  it  is  aston- 
ishing how  it  changes  one's  appearance)  and  fezzes 
on  our  heads,  we  trusted  to  pass  unnoticed  as  Greeks. 

Our  plan  had  a  definite  and  limited  objective.  We 
wanted  to  escape  by  night  from  Psamattia  and  hide 
in  Constantinople.  Once  in  hiding,  we  trusted  to 
going  by  boat  to  Russia,  or  else  getting  in  touch  with 
friendly  brigands  who  would  convey  us  to  our  forces 
in  the  Mediterranean.  But  the  first  object  was  to 
get  away  from  the  camp.  Until  this  was  achieved 
it  was  almost  impossible  to  make  definite  arrange- 
ments. At  first  we  had  thought  that  it  would  be  an 
easy  matter  to  either  give  our  sentries  the  slip  when 
we  were  out  shopping,  or  else  to  get  away  from  the 
camp  itself.  But  when  it  came  to  the  point,  we  felt 
scruples  about  bolting  from  men  we  had  bribed  and 
wheedled  so  often:  they  would  have  got  into  such 
terrible  trouble  if  they  had  had  to  return  to  Psamattia 
without  us.  There  remained  the  alternative  of  escap- 
ing by  night  from  our  house.  But  when  Robin  had 
become  £t  enough  to  try  (and  of  course  he  was  all 
agog  to  be  off  at  the  first  possible  moment)  we  found 
the  guards  were  more  alert  than  we  thought. 

Our  situation  was  roughly  this:  we  were  housed  in 
the  Armenian  Patriarchate,  next  to  the  Psamattia  fire 
brigade,  and  there  were  sentries  in  every  street  to 


OUR  FIRST  ESCAPE  137 

which  access  was  possible,  by  craft  or  by  climbing. 
The  window  of  our  room,  which  was  directly  over  the 
doorway  where  the  main  guard  lived,  looked  out  on 
to  a  narrow  street,  across  which  there  was  another 
house,  inhabited  by  Russian  prisoners  of  war  to  which 
we  were  sometimes  allowed  to  go.  At  first  we  thought 
it  might  be  possible  to  pretend  to  go  to  the  Russian 
house,  and,  mingling  with  the  passers-by  in  the  street, 
to  melt  away  unnoticed  in  the  crowd.  We  tried  this 
plan,  but  the  guards  on  our  doorway  were  much  too 
sharp  for  such  a  simple  game.  To  slip  out  with  the 
Armenian  funerals  who  used  to  go  through  our  gate- 
way was  another  project  also  doomed  to  failure.  To 
get  into  the  Armenian  church,  on  the  night  before  a 
burial,  remove  the  occupant  of  a  coffin,  and  so  pass 
out  next  morning  in  the  centre  of  the  funeral  pro- 
cession, was  an  attractively  melodramatic  idea,  which 
excited  us  for  a  time.  It  could  not  be  executed,  how- 
ever, because  the  church  was  locked  and  guarded  at 
night.  To  climb  out  of  the  back  window  of  the  Rus- 
sian house  also  proved  impossible,  because  a  sentry 
stood  outside  it  always.  Every  point  was  watched. 
Two  sentries  armed  with  old  Martini  rifles  (of  archaic 
pattern  but  unpleasantly  big  bore)  stood  directly  be- 
low our  window.  Two  more  similarly  equipped  were 
opposite,  at  the  door  of  the  Russian  house.  One  man 
with  a  new  rifle  was  behind  the  Russian  house.  Two 
more  were  behind  ours,  and  one  was  in  a  side  street. 


138  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

There  were  also  men  on  duty  at  the  entrance  to  the 
fire  brigade. 

After  considering  all  sorts  of  methods  we  decided 
on  a  plan  whose  chief  merit  was  its  seeming  impos- 
sibility. No  one  would  have  expected  us  to  try  it. 

Our  idea  was  to  climb  out  of  our  window  at  night, 
get  across  some  ten  foot  of  sheer  wall,  until  we  reached 
the  roof  of  the  next-door  house.  This  roof  was  railed 
by  a  parapet,  behind  which  we  could  crouch,  and 
creep  along  the  roofs  until  we  reached  a  cross-road 
eighty  yards  away.  Here  we  would  slip  down  a  rope 
to  the  pavement,  and  although  we  would  be  visible  to 
at  least  five  sentries  during  our  descent,  it  seemed 
probable  that  no  particular  sentry  would  consider 
himself  responsible  for  the  cross-roads,  which  was 
beyond  their  beat. 

To  climb  out  of  a  window  set  in  a  blank  wall,  about 
thirty  feet  above  a  busy  street  where  four  sentries 
stood,  did  not  seem  a  reasonable  thing  to  do.  But 
the  wall  was  not  as  impassable  as  it  seemed.  Two 
little  ledges  of  moulding  ran  along  it  under  our 
window-sill,  and  this  would  give  us  a  foothold  and 
a  handhold  until  we  reached  the  roof  of  the  adjoining 
house.  And  although  we  would  be  visible  during 
our  precarious  transit  of  the  wall  face,  we  knew  that 
people  rarely  look  up  above  their  own  height  and 
rarely  look  for  things  they  don't  expect. 

It  was  the  night  of  the  twenty-seventh  of  July, 


OUR  FIRST  ESCAPE  139 

when  a  bright  full  moon  rode  over  the  sea  behind  our 
house,  that  we  decided  to  make  the  attempt. 

The  first  point  was  to  get  out  of  the  window  without 
being  seen.  A  colonel  of  the  Russian  Guards,  a 
little  man  with  a  great  heart,  volunteered  to  help  us. 
Directly  we  extinguished  the  lights  in  our  room,  he 
was  to  engage  the  sentries  at  the  door  of  his  house 
in  an  animated  conversation.  If,  however,  he  thought 
they  were  too  alert,  or  were  likely  to  look  up  to  our 
window,  he  was  to  give  us  a  signal  with  a  lighted 
cigarette. 

After  a  cordial  good-bye,  he  left  us.  We  took  off 
our  boots,  coiled  our  ropes  round  our  waists,  and 
slung  them  round  our  necks,  roped  ourselves  together, 
coiled  the  remainder  of  the  rope  round  our  waists, 
stuffed  our  pockets  and  knapsacks  with  our  escaping 
gear,  and  then  blew  out  our  lamp,  as  if  we  were 
going  to  bed.  Crouched  under  the  window-sill  we 
waited.  The  sentries  below  us  were  sitting  on  stools 
in  the  street.  The  two  men  opposite  were  lolling 
against  the  door-post,  and  the  moon,  rising  behind 
our  house,  while  still  leaving  the  street  in  shadow, 
had  just  caught  their  faces,  so  that  their  every  eye- 
lash was  visible.  To  them  came  the  little  colonel, 
and  only  the  top  of  his  cap  reached  the  limelight. 
We  heard  his  cheery  voice.  We  saw  both  sentries 
looking  down,  presumably  helping  themselves  to  his 
cigarettes. 


140  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

That  waiting  moment  was  very  tense.  An  initial 
failure  would  have  been  deplorable,  yet  many  things 
made  failure  likely.  At  times  such  as  these,  the  con- 
fidence of  one's  companion  counts  for  much,  and  I 
shall  never  forget  Robin's  bearing.  Anyone  who  has 
been  in  similar  circumstances  will  know  what  I  mean. 
He  went  first  out  of  the  window.  I  followed  an  in- 
stant later.  Once  the  first  step  was  taken,  once  my 
foot  was  on  that  two-inch  ledge,  the  complexion  of 
things  altered  completely.  I  blessed  the  architect 
who  had  devised  the  string-course  to  which  we  clung. 
Anxiety  vanished,  leaving  nothing  but  a  thrill  of  pleas- 
ure. One  was  master  of  one's  fate. 

At  one  moment  we  were  in  view  of  four  sentries 
(two  at  our  door  and  two  opposite),  a  Turkish  officer 
who  had  come  to  take  the  air  at  our  doorway,  and 
several  passers-by  in  the  street.  But  no  one  looked 
up.  No  one  saw  the  two  men,  only  five  yards  away, 
who  clambered  slowly  along  the  string-course,  like 
flies  on  a  wall. 

After  gaining  the  roof  of  the  next  house,  we  lay 
flat  and  breathless  behind  the  parapet,  and  thanked 
God  we  had  succeeded  in — not  making  fools  of  our- 
selves, anyway. 

The  parapet  was  lower  than  we  thought,  and  in 
order  to  get  the  advantage  of  its  cover  it  was  necessary 
to  remain  absolutely  prone  in  the  gutter  of  the  roof. 
In  this  position,  from  ten  o'clock  till  half  past  eleven, 


OUR  FIRST  ESCAPE  141 

we  wriggled  and  wriggled  along  the  house  tops,  past 
a  dead  cat  and  other  offensive  objects,  until  at  last 
we  had  covered  the  distance.  Once,  during  this  stalk, 
my  rope  got  hitched  up  on  a  nail,  and  I  had  to 
wriggle  back  to  free  it.  And  once,  having  raised 
myself  to  take  a  look  round,  one  of  the  sentries  on  the 
Russian  house  ran  out  into  the  street  and  started 
making  a  tremendous  noise.  I  don't  know  what  it 
was  about,  but  it  alarmed  me  very  much,  and  con- 
demned us  to  marble  immobility  for  a  time. 

At  last,  however,  we  reached  the  end  of  our  wriggle. 
But  here  a  new  difficulty  confronted  us.  Directly 
overlooking  the  part  of  the  roof  from  which  we  con- 
templated our  descent,  and  less  than  ten  yards  away, 
an  officer  of  the  Psamattia  fire  brigade  sat  at  an 
open  window,  looking  anxiously  up  and  down  the 
street,  as  if  expecting  someone  to  keep  an  appoint- 
ment. His  window  was  on  a  level  with  us.  So  in- 
tently did  he  stare  that  I  thought  he  had  seen  us.  But 
we  lay  dead  still  behind  the  parapet,  and  it  became 
apparent,  as  time  passed  and  he  still  stood  disconsolate 
by  the  window,  that  we  were  not  the  objects  of  his 
languishing  regard.  And  meanwhile  the  moon — the 
kindly  old  moon  that  sees  so  much — was  creeping  up 
the  sky.  Soon  she  would  flood  us  with  her  radiance. 
Even  a  love-sick  officer  of  the  fire  brigade  would  not 
fail  to  notice  us  across  the  narrow  street,  lit  by  the 
limelight  of  all  the  universe.  For  an  hour  this  an- 


142  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

noying  Romeo  kept  watch,  while  we  discussed  the 
situation  in  tiny  whispers,  and  cursed  feminine  un- 
punctuality.  But  at  last,  just  as  we  had  determined 
to  "let  go  the  painter"  and  take  our  chance,  he  began 
to  yawn  and  stretch  and  look  towards  his  bed,  which 
we  could  see  at  the  farther  end  of  his  room.  "You 
are  tired  of  waiting — she  isn't  worth  it!"  I  sent  in 
thought-wave  across  the  street.  He  seemed  to  hesi- 
tate, then  he  yawned  again,  and  just  as  our  protecting 
belt  of  shadow  had  narrowed  to  a  yard,  he*  gave  up 
his  hopes  of  Juliet  and  retired. 

That  was  our  moment. 

We  stood  up,  and  made  the  rope  fast  to  a  conven- 
ient ring  in  the  parapet.  Traffic  in  the  street  had 
ceased.  The  sentries  were  huddled  in  their  coats, 
for  it  was  a  chilly  summer  night.  Up  street  a  dog 
was  yapping,  and  its  voice  seemed  to  stab  the  silence. 
Before  stepping  over  the  parapet  I  remember  taking 
a  last  look  round,  and  drawing  a  great  sigh  of  relief. 
The  waiting  was  over.  In  two  seconds'  time  we 
should  have  gained  freedom,  or  a  slug  from  the 
sentry's  rifle. 

It  took  two  seconds  to  slip  down  thirty  feet  of  rope, 
and  two  seconds  is  a  long  time  when  your  liberty,  if 
not  your  life,  is  at  stake.  I  half  kicked  down  the 
sign-board  of  a  shop  in  my  descent,  and  Robin,  who 
followed,  completed  the  disaster.  In  our  haste  we 


OUR  FIRST  ESCAPE  143 

had  cut  our  hands  almost  to  the  bone,  and  had  made 
noise  enough  to  wake  the  dead. 

Yet  no  one  stirred.  We  were  both  in  the  street, 
and  no  one  had  moved. 

After  two  and  a  half  years  of  captivity  we  were 
free  men  once  more.  The  slothful  years  had  vanished 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  Can  you  realise  the 
miracle,  liberty-loving  reader,  that  passes  in  the  mind 
of  a  man  who  thus  suddenly  realises  his  free- 
dom? .  .  . 

I  don't  know  what  Robin  thought,  for  we  said 
nothing.  We  lit  cigarettes  and  strolled  away.  But 
inside  of  me,  the  motors  of  the  nervous  system  raced. 

The  only  other  danger,  in  our  hour  and  a  half's 
walk  to  our  destination,  was  being  asked  for  pass- 
ports by  some  policemen.  In  our  character  as  Ger- 
man mechanics,  whenever  we  passed  anyone,  I  found 
it  a  great  relief  to  make  some  such  remark  as: 

"Lieb  Vaterland,  magst  ruhig  sein, 
Fest  steht  und  treu  die  Wacht  am  Rhein." 

But  Robin,  who  could  not  understand  my  accent, 
paid  little  heed. 

Only  once  did  we  think  we  were  likely  to  be  re- 
caught.  At  about  one  in  the  morning,  as  we  were 
passing  the  Fatih  Mosque,  we  heard  a  rattle  on  the 
cobbles  behind  us.  A  carriage  was  being  galloped 


144  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

in  our  direction.  It  might  well  contain  some  of  the 
Psamattia  garrison.  We  doubled  into  some  ruins, 
and  lay  there,  while  the  clatter  grew  louder  and 
louder.  A  few  wisps  of  cloud  crossed  the  full  moon, 
that  had  reached  her  zenith.  Their  silent  shadows 
moved  like  ghosts  across  the  desolation  of  the  city. 
A  cat  was  abroad.  She  saw  us,  and  halted  with  paw 
uplifted,  and  blazing  eyes. 

Then  the  carriage  passed,  empty,  with  a  drunken 
driver.  It  rattled  away  into  the  night  and  we  emerged 
and  took  our  way  through  the  streets  of  old  Stamboul, 
under  the  chequered  shade  of  vines. 


CHAPTER  IX 

A    CITY   OF   DISGUISES 

WE  knocked  softly  at  the  door  of  the  house  that  was 
to  be  our  home,  and  then  waited,  flattened  in  the 
shadow  below  it,  quite  prepared  for  the  worst.  It 
was  then  four  o'clock  in  the  morning.  It  seemed 
too  much  to  hope  that  we  would  be  welcome. 

But  we  were.  The  door  opened  cautiously  about 
one  inch,  and  two  little  faces  were  seen,  low  down  the 
crack.  Behind  them,  some  one  held  a  light. 

Then  the  door  was  flung  wide,  and  we  saw  on  the 
stairs  a  whole  family  of  friendly  people,  male  and 
female,  old  and  young,  all  in  night  dress,  and  all 
with  arms  outstretched  in  rapturous  greeting.  We 
might  have  been  Prodigal  Sons  returning,  instead 
of  two  strangers  whose  presence  would  be  a  source 
of  continual  danger. 

Hyppolite  and  Athene,  the  twins,  aged  eight,  who 
had  first  peeped  at  us,  now  took  us  each  by  the  hand, 
and  led  us  upstairs. 

"The  last  escaped  prisoner  we  had  here  was  a 
forger,"  said  Hyppolite  to  me. 

145 


146  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

"He  was  a  friend  of  father's,"  added  Athene  over 
her  shoulder,  "and  he  escaped  from  prison  about  six 
weeks  ago.  He  was  afraid  the  police  would  find  his 
tools,  so  he  threw  them  all  into  our  cistern.  They 
are  there  now." 

We  reached  the  top  floor,  and  were  shown  by  the 
twins  into  an  apartment  containing  a  double  bed  with 
a  stuffy  canopy  of  damask. 

"This  is  the  family  bedroom,"  they  said. 

"And  where  are  we  to  sleep?"  I  asked. 

"Here,"  said  Themistocle,  the  proud  owner  of  the 
•house.  "My  sister  and  I  and  the  twins  were  using 
the  bed  until  your  arrival,  but  now  we  will  sleep  in 
the  passage." 

"The  passage?"  I  echoed.  "Were  you  all  four 
using  this  bed?" 

"Yes,  yes.  The  other  rooms  are  full  of  lodgers. 
There  are  three  officers  of  the  Turkish  Army  here  at 
present.  But  they  won't  disturb  you,  because  they 
are  hiding,  too." 

"Mon  Dieu!"  said  I,  sitting  on  the  bed — "but  your 
sister  can't  sleep  in  the  passage,  can  she?" 

"Certainly;  she's  quite  used  to  that  sort  of  thing. 
It's  safer  also,  in  case  the  police  come." 

"I  know  all  the  police,"  said  Athene;  "even  when 
they  are  not  in  uniform,  I  can  recognise  them  by  their 
boots." 

"And  we  are  always  on  the  lookout  for  them,"  said 


A  CITY  OF  DISGUISES  147 

Hyppolite;  "if  the  police  come  to  search  the  house 
you  will  have  to  get  into  the  cistern." 

"Where  the  forger  threw  his  tools,"  explained 
Athene. 

Coffee  and  cigarettes  were  produced,  and  ointment 
for  our  lacerated  hands.  We  were  at  once  made  to 
feel  quite  at  home.  The  family  stayed  and  talked 
to  us  until  dawn  broke.  They  thoroughly  appre- 
ciated the  story  of  the  escape,  and  clapped  their  hands 
with  glee  at  the  idea  of  the  Turks'  amazement  when 
they  discovered  that  we  had  vanished,  leaving  no  trace 
behind  us. 

"They  will  never  find  the  rope,"  said  Themistocle, 
"because  the  shopkeeper  over  whose  shop  it  is  will 
certainly  cut  it  down  and  hide  it,  for  fear  of  being 
asked  questions." 

"And  now  we  must  thank  the  blessed  saints  for 
your  escape,"  said  an  old  lady  who  had  not  previously 
spoken. 

She  went  to  a  glass  cupboard,  opened  it,  and  lit 
two  candles.  A  scent  of  rose-leaves  and  incense  came 
from  the  shrine,  which  contained  oranges  and  ikons 
and  Easter  eggs  and  a  large  family  Bible. 

For  a  moment  or  two  we  all  stood  silent. 

Then- 
Just  when  I  was  expecting  a  prayer,  the  old  lady 
blew  out  the  candles  and  shut  up  the  cupboards  and 
crossed  herself.  The  thanksgiving  was  over,  and  we 


148  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

dispersed  with  very  cordial  good-nights.  I  think 
Themistocle  wanted  to  kiss  us,  but  we  felt  we  had  been 
through  trials  enough  for  the  time. 

The  family  retired  to  the  passage  and  settled  down 
to  rest  with  squeaks  and  giggles,  while  Robin  and  I, 
after  thanking  God  for  all  His  mercies,  with  very 
humble  and  grateful  hearts,  threw  ourselves  down  on 
the  bed  too  exhausted  to  undress,  and  slept  the  sleep 
of  free  men. 

Next  instant,  it  seemed  to  me,  although  in  reality 
two  hours  had  elapsed,  we  were  awakened  by  the 
twins,  who  looked  on  us  as  their  especial  charges, 
and  bullied  us  accordingly. 

"Time  to  get  up,"  they  said  excitedly.  "The  house 
might  be  searched  at  any  minute." 

Instantly  we  were  afoot. 

"Where  are  the  police?"  I  asked. 

"There  is  a  detective  standing  at  the  corner  of  our 
street,"  said  Hyppolite. 

"And  they  often  come  to  see  if  all  our  lodgers  are 
registered!"  added  his  sister. 

We  bundled  our  maps,  compasses,  and  other  be- 
longings into  a  towel,  and  staggered  downstairs,  with 
fear  and  sleep  battling  for  mastery  in  our  minds. 

But  in  the  pantry  we  found  the  seniors  of  the 
household  quite  unconcerned.  There  was  no  immi- 
nent danger  of  a  search,  but  there  was  on  the  other 
hand  the  immediate  prospect  of  breakfast. 


A  CITY  OF  DISGUISES  149 

A  saucepan  was  actually  being  buttered  (and  butter 
was  worth  its  weight  in  gold)  to  make  us  an  omelette. 
By  now  we  had  been  thoroughly  stirred  from  sleep 
and  realised  how  hungry  we  were.  I  forget  how 
many  omelettes  we  ate,  or  how  much  butter  we  used, 
but  I  think  that  that  charming  breakfast  cost  more 
than  a  dinner  at  the  Ritz. 

When  it  was  over,  an  engaging  sense  of  drowsiness 
began  to  creep  over  me  again,  but  the  twins  were 
adamant. 

"You  must  practise  getting  into  the  cistern,"  said 
Hyppolite. 

"Like  the  forger  did,"  chimed  in  Athene,  "and 
then  you  must  arrange  a  hiding  place  for  your  things." 

The  worst  of  it  was  that  their  suggestions  were  so 
practical.  Obviously  it  was  our  duty  to  at  once  take 
all  precautions. 

I  consequently  took  off  my  clothes,  and  removing 
the  lid  of  the  cistern,  I  was  let  down  through  the  hole 
in  the  floor  into  the  waters  below.  In  my  descent 
I  re-opened  the  wounds  in  my  hands,  and  it  was  in 
no  very  cheerful  mood  that  I  found  myself  in  dark- 
ness, with  water  up  to  my  shoulders.  I  moved  cau- 
tiously about,  trying  to  imagine  our  feelings  if  fate 
drove  us  to  this  chilly  and  conventional  hiding  place 
while  detectives  were  conducting  a  search  for  us  above. 
Then  I  barked  my  foot  on  something  hard,  and  stoop- 
ing down  through  the  water  I  picked  up  a  large  block 


150  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

of  pumicestone,  which  was  doubtless  the  forger's  en- 
graving die.  Something  scurried  on  an  unseen  ledge; 
a  rat  no  doubt.  I  felt  I  had  seen  enough  of  the 
cistern.  Groping  my  way  back  to  the  lid,  my  fingers 
touched  a  little  thing  that  cracked  under  them,  and 
instantly  I  felt  a  stinging  pain.  Whether  it  was  a 
beetle  or  a  sleepy  wasp  I  did  not  stop  to  enquire. 

"Lemme  get  out,"  I  bleated  through  the  hole  in 
the  floor.  .  .  . 

"Robin,"  I  said,  when  I  was  safe  once  more,  "if 
ever  we  are  driven  down  there,  we  must  take  something 
to  counteract  the  evil  spirits." 

All  that  morning  we  passed  in  the  pantry,  eating 
and  dozing  by  snatches. 

Morning  merged  into  afternoon,  the  afternoon 
merged  into  evening,  and  no  policeman  came.  We 
were  safe. 

At  nightfall,  after  sending  Hyppolite  as  a  scout 
up  the  stairs  to  see  that  the  other  lodgers  were  not 
about,  we  went  up  to  our  room  again,  and  settled  down 
definitely. 

Our  stay,  we  then  thought,  might  last  several  weeks, 
so  as  to  give  us  leisure  to  weigh  the  reliability  of 
the  various  routes  and  guides  that  offered.  There 
was  no  particular  hurry.  The  longer  we  stayed,  the 
more  likely  would  the  Turks  be  to  relax  such  meas- 
ures as  they  had  taken  for  our  recapture. 


A  CITY  OF  DISGUISES  151 

But  we  had  reckoned  without  the  bugs.  They  were 
worse  in  this  room  than  in  any  other  place  I  have 
seen  in  Turkey,  not  excepting  the  lowest  dungeons  of 
the  Military  Prison,  where  they  breed  by  the  billion. 
Their  voracity  and  vehemence  made  a  prolonged  stay 
impossible.  Except  for  the  first  sleep  of  two  hours, 
when  exhaustion  had  made  us  insensible,  we  never 
had  more  than  a  single  hour  of  uninterrupted  rest. 

Throughout  the  long  and  stifling  nights  of  our  stay, 
Robin  and  I  lay  in  the  stately  double  bed  wondering 
wearily  how  any  man  or  woman  alive  could  tolerate 
the  creatures  that  crawled  over  its  mahogany  posts 
and  swarmed  over  its  flowered  damask.  Every  three 
quarters  of  an  hour  one  or  other  of  us  used  to  light 
a  candle,  and  add  to  the  holocaust  of  creatures  we 
had  already  made. 

"What  hunting?"  I  used  to  ask  sleepily. 

"A  couple  of  brace  this  time,  and  a  cub  I  chopped 
in  covert,"  Robin  would  say. 

"That  makes  twenty-two  couple  up  to  date — and  the 
time  is  12.35  A.  M." 

Then  at  one  o'clock  it  was  Robin's  turn  to  ask  what 
sport  I  had  had. 

"A  sounder  broke  away  under  your  pillow,"  I  re- 
ported. "Six  rideable  brace  and  six  squeakers." 

Ugh! 

Those  first  days  of  our  liberty  were  a  trying  time. 
To  the  external  irritation  of  insects  was  added  the 


152  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

mental  anxieties  of  our  situation.  What,  for  instance, 
would  happen  to  the  twins  if  we  were  caught  in  that 
house?  And  again,  was  Themistocle  faithful? 
Would  he  be  tempted  by  the  reward  offered  for  our 
recapture?  At  times  we  were  not  quite  certain.  He 
used  to  talk  very  gloomily  about  the  risks  and  the 
cost  of  life. 

"Everyone  is  starving,"  he  used  to  say  thoughtfully, 
"even  the  policemen  go  hungry  for  bribes.  A  friend 
of  mine,  a  policeman,  said  to  me  the  other  day,  'For 
the  love  of  Allah  find  somebody  for  me  to  arrest. 
Among  all  the  guilty  and  the  innocent  in  this  town, 
surely  you  can  find  somebody  that  we  could  threaten 
to  arrest?  Then  we  would  share  the  proceeds.'  " 

"What  did  you  say  to  that?"  I  asked. 

"I  said,"  he  answered  thoughtfully,  "that  I  would 
do  my  best." 

"But  what  sort  of  man  would  you  arrest?"  I  asked. 

"Any  sort  of  man.  A  drunkard,  perhaps,  if  I  saw 
one,  or  a  rich  man,  if  I  dared." 

"Rich  men  are  apt  to  be  dangerous,"  said  I  mean- 
ingly. 

"I  know.  But  what  can  one  do?"  he  asked,  spread- 
ing out  his  hands.  "One  must  live!" 

"And  let  live,"  said  I,  thinking  suddenly  of  the 
bugs,  and  wondering  what  Themistocle  thought  of 
them. 


A  CITY  OF  DISGUISES  153 

It  was  then  that  I  noticed  his  method  of  combating 
the  household  pets. 

Previously  I  had  observed  that  the  ends  of  his 
pyjamas  (we  always  talked  at  night)  were  provided 
with  strong  tapes,  which  were  tied  close  to  his  ankles; 
but  the  object  of  this  fastening  only  became  apparent 
when  I  noticed  the  excited  throngs  of  insects  on  his 
elastic-sided  boots.  They  could  not  get  higher. 
They  were  baulked  of  their  blood.  If  he  ever  felt 
any  discomfort,  he  merely  tightened  the  tapes. 

I  cannot  honestly  say  that  I  liked  Themistocle. 
There  was  something  ghastly  about  his  greed  for 
money.  Yet  I  freely  admit  that  beyond  the  fifty 
pounds  we  paid  for  the  great  risk  he  took  in  lodging 
us,  he  never  attempted  to  mulct  us  at  all,  and  the 
prices  we  paid  for  our  food,  all  things  considered, 
were  quite  reasonable. 

Still,  I  was  always  glad  when  he  was  away.  The 
phrase  "to  darken  one's  door"  took  a  new  and  literal 
meaning.  The  room  seemed  brighter  for  his  absence. 

Perhaps  the  brightest  hour  of  the  twenty-four  was 
the  time  before  sunset.  It  was  possible  then  to  draw 
back  the  blinds  without  any  danger  of  being  seen,  and 
enjoy  the  cool  of  the  evening  and  the  magnificent 
view  which  our  situation  afforded.  Our  house,  al- 
though it  stood  in  a  side  street,  commanded  a  pros- 
pect of  the  upper  end  of  the  Golden  Horn,  as  well  as 


154  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

a  view  of  one  of  the  most  populous  thoroughfares 
of  the  town. 

We  used  to  sit  and  gaze  at  the  twilit  city,  until 
the  creeping  darkness  overtook  us. 

If  circulation  be  a  test  of  a  city's  vitality,  then 
Constantinople  was  certainly  at  a  low  ebb.  The  pe- 
destrians seemed  to  get  nowhere.  They  were  hanging 
about,  waiting  for  something  to  happen.  The  whole 
town  was  dead  tired,  unspeakably  bored  of  life  as 
it  had  to  be  lived  under  the  Young  Turks.  Constan- 
tinople was  getting  cross.  She  was  like  someone  who 
was  tired  of  adulation  from  the  wrong  person.  Some 
trick  of  sea  and  sun  give  her  this  human  quality  of 
sex.  Anyone  who  has  lived  for  long  in  her  houses 
must  feel  her  personality.  She  is  the  courtesan  of 
conquerors,  but  inherent  in  her  is  some  witchcraft 
by  which  she  weakens  those  who  hold  her,  so  that 
they  die  and  are  utterly  exterminated,  while  she  re- 
mains with  her  fadeless  and  fatal  beauty,  an  Eastern 
Lorelei  beside  the  Bosporus.  .  .  .  She  sapped  the 
strength  of  the  Roman  Empire,  she  overthrew  the 
dominion  of  the  Greeks,  and  now,  after  a  period  of 
fretful  wedlock,  she  was  shaking  herself  free  from 
the  Turk. 

Something  was  going  to  happen  soon.  One  felt  it 
in  the  air. 

What  happened  to  us  was  that  it  became  necessary 
to  draw  the  blinds,  and  light  our  candle,  and  search 


A  CITY  OF  DISGUISES  155 

for  the  pestilence  that  crept  by  night.  Presently  our 
meal  arrived,  which  was  always  a  cheerful  interlude, 
but  it  was  short  as  it  was  sweet,  for  courses  were 
few,  with  famine  prices  prevailing.  Afterwards  we 
continued  our  hunting  till  dawn. 

At  dawn,  when  the  chill  of  morning  had  sent  our 
sated  enemies  to  sleep,  there  was  another  truce  from 
trouble.  We  used  to  draw  back  the  blinds  again 
and  sit  at  the  window. 

I  used  to  watch  the  pale  sun  on  the  horizon,  fighting 
the  mist-forms  that  clung  heavily  to  earth  and  sea,  and 
I  felt  that  in  the  world-consciousness  a  similar  contest 
swayed.  The  old  ideas  of  government  were  being 
caught  by  a  light  that  was  pale  now,  but  soon  to  grow 
luminous — a  radiance  that  would  dispel  the  night 
of  war,  and  show  us  a  new  world,  intangible  yet,  but 
dimly  sensed. 

In  the  dim  alleys  and  side  streets  below,  where  bal- 
conies overhung,  shutting  out  the  dawn,  what  a  weight 
of  woe  there  was!  Famine  and  fire,  twin  angels  of 
destruction  that  lurked  in  every  by-way  of  the  city, 
were  waiting  to  take  their  toll.  And  the  war  went 
on  for  caged  and  free,  while  some  starved  and  others 
made  fortunes,  and  some  became  generals  and  others 
corpses.  And  the  end  of  these  things  was  vanity. 
Vanitas  vanitatum. 

The  minaret  of  a  mosque  was  directly  opposite  to 
me.  Under  sway  of  the  sanctuary  and  the  hour,  the 


156  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

voice  of  the  muezzin  spoke  in  all  its  sincerity  and 
unity  of  purpose.  God  was  everywhere,  all-pervasive, 
all-unseen,  invisible  only  because  He  was  so  manifest. 
Evil  of  the  night  and  glory  of  the  dawn  made  His 
picture,  the  world.  With  new  eyes  I  saw  now  this 
city  grey  with  sin,  and  fresh  with  the  promise  of  an- 
other day. 

From  the  house  of  that  stern  and  simple  faith  that 
is  the  creed  of  one  fifth  of  the  world,  there  came  a 
sense  of  kinship  with  all  the  suffering  under  the  sky. 
Reverence  came  to  me  also,  and  that  brotherhood 
which  is  the  message  of  the  Great  Teachers  since  time 
began.  These  thoughts  were  round  me,  a  silent  com- 
pany, as  I  looked  Meccawards  to  the  place  of  prayer. 
Then  the  heralds  of  the  dawn  alighted  on  the  minaret, 
and  their  wings  were  amethyst  and  saffron.  The  night 
was  over,  and  the  muezzins9  long  exultant  call  to 
worship  died  down  with  the  increasing  light. 

Another  day  had  begun. 


Not  many  days  and  nights  did  we  tarry  in  Themis- 
tocle's  house.  Robin  decided  to  try  his  luck  by  land. 
After  various  enquiries,  he  made  arrangements  with 
a  Greek  boy  to  board  a  melon-boat  bound  for  Rodosto. 
His  idea  was  to  make  that  port,  and  thence  work  his 
way  to  Enos,  where  he  hoped  to  be  picked  up  by  our 
patrol-boats.  After  many  adventures  and  perils  by 


A  CITY  OF  DISGUISES  157 

land  and  sea,  and  a  great  deal  of  bad  luck,  he  was 
caught  at  the  town  of  Malgara.  So  ended  a  very 
gallant  attempt,  which  ought  to  be  set  down  in  detail 
by  him. 

I  can  only  describe  his  appearance  when  he  left. 
His  disguise  was  a  matter  of  great  difficulty,  for  he 
is  so  tall  and  so  Saxon  that  he  always  attracts  notice 
in  an  Eastern  crowd.  An  Arab  ragamuffin  seemed 
the  role  best  suited  to  him,  and  he  accordingly  ex- 
changed his  comparatively  respectable  clothes  for  a 
greasy  old  coat  and  a  pair  of  repellent  trousers. 
With  a  tattered  fez  well  back  on  his  head,  and  all 
his  visible  skin  blackened  with  burnt  cork,  he  looked 
an  unspeakable  scoundrel.  But  he  was  too  villain- 
ous. He  would  have  been  immediately  arrested  for 
his  appearance  alone.  A  touch  of  genius,  however, 
completed  his  make-up.  In  his  hands  he  carried  a 
poor  little  bowl  of  curds  and  half  a  cucumber,  which 
completely  altered  his  ferocious  air  by  adding  the 
requisite  touch  of  pathos.  The  food  he  carried,  like 
a  white  emblem  of  innocence,  transformed  a  savage 
scoundrel  into  a  sort  of  male  Miss  Muffett.  No  de- 
tective could  have  found  heart  to  enquire  where  he 
was  going.  He  was  enough  to  make  anyone  cry. 

He  left  in  a  frightful  hurry,  for  his  boat  had  to 
catch  a  certain  tide,  but  we  drank  a  stirrup  cup  to  his 
success,  and  parted  with  much  sadness  on  my  side. 
I  was  very  sorry  to  see  him  go,  but  I  was  quite  con- 


158  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

vinced  (wrongly,  as  events  proved)  that  the  best 
chance  of  success  lay  in  going  to  Russia. 

The  little  colonel  of  the  Russian  Guards  had  told 
us  before  we  escaped  that  he  was  likely  to  be  soon 
repatriated  (for  he  was  a  person  of  influence  in  the 
Caucasus),  and  I  felt  sure  that  I  could  arrange  to  go 
as  his  servant,  if  no  better  scheme  presented  itself  in 
the  meanwhile.  But  there  were  many  possibilities 
in  the  "city  of  disguises." 

During  my  stay  with  Themistocle  I  had  been  learn- 
ing history  as  it  is  never  written,  but  as  it  is  most 
strangely  lived  by  a  people  on  the  brink  of  dissolution 
and  disaster.  As  an  escaped  prisoner  I  thought  that 
delay  in  Constantinople — somewhere  clean,  however 
— would  not  be  time  wasted  if  one  was  in  touch  with 
the  politics  of  the  time.  If  the  Russian  scheme  failed, 
there  were  other  openings,  by  earth  and  air  and  water. 

But  the  first  thing  to  do  was  to  find  a  place  where 
I  could  lay  my  head  without  getting  it  bitten. 

The  good  angel  of  prisoners  came  to  my  assistance 
at  this  critical  juncture  in  my  affairs. 

"You  must  be  disguised  as  a  girl,"  said  she;  "I  will 
buy  you  a  wig  at  once." 

"But  what  about  my  figure?"  I  asked,  "and  my 
feet  .  .  .  ?" 

"Some  clothes  were  left  with  me  at  the  beginning 
of  the  war,"  she  answered,  "which  will  fit  you  with 
the  help  of  a  tailor.  And  as  to  your  shoes,  your 


A  CITY  OF  DISGUISES  159 

own  will  pass  muster,  with  new  bows.  No  one  has 
had  any  proper  shoes  for  ages  here.  But  you  will 
want — well,  lots  of  other  things." 

And  I  certainly  did  want  a  lot  before  I  looked  at 
all  presentable.  After  very  careful  shaving,  I  began 
to  splash  about  confidently  at  my  toilet  table.  There 
was  Vesuvian  black  for  the  eyebrows,  bistre  for  the 
eyelashes,  poudre  violette,  rouge,  carmine, — more 
powder — more  rouge — at  last  I  showed  my  satisfied 
face  to  Miss  Whitaker,  who  gave  a  cry  of  horror,  and 
flatly  refused  to  be  seen  in  my  company. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  wash  my  face  and 
start  again. 

This  time  I  succeeded  in  making  myself  presentable, 
although  a  blue  streak  of  whisker  seemed  always 
slightly  visible  through  the  powder.  The  wig,  how- 
ever, helped  matters  greatly,  and  I  arranged  some 
ringlets  on  my  shaven  cheeks. 

The  dressing  up  was  quite  exciting.  Silk  and  lace 
and  whalebone,  especially  a  lot  of  lace  in  front,  was 
the  basis  on  which  I  built.  The  foundations  took 
some  time  in  laying,  but  when  finished  I  found  to 
my  delight  that  the  coat  and  skirt  belonging  to  Miss 
Whitaker's  friend  fitted  my  figure  perfectly. 

A  few  details,  invisible  to  my  eyes,  were  quickly 
corrected,  and  I  think  that  when  I  finally  emerged, 
with  large  hat  at  a  becoming  angle,  I  did  credit  to 
my  instructress. 


160  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

Gloves  I  had  always  to  wear,  of  course,  and  a  veil 
was  advisable,  chiefly  to  tone  down  my  blinding 
beauty  to  the  eyes  of  passers-by.  Do  what  I  would, 
I  could  not  hide  a  certain  artificiality  in  my  appear- 
ance which  was  most  unfair  to  Miss  Whitaker,  consid- 
ering that  I  was  her  companion.  But  I  behaved  as 
well  as  I  possibly  could. 

I  learned  how  to  walk  in  a  ladylike  fashion,  and 
how  to  powder  my  nose  in  an  engaging  manner.  My 
arms  and  legs  had  to  be  kept  under  various  restraints. 
A  mincing  gait  was  soon  acquired,  but  I  found  sit- 
ting still  more  awkward.  My  knees  evinced  an  al- 
most ineradicable  tendency  to  cross  themselves  or 
sprawl,  while  my  gloved  forearms,  to  the  last,  felt  as 
unwieldy  as  a  baboon's.  But  everything  I  could  I 
learned  assiduously  and  in  dead  earnest,  down  to 
managing  my  veil,  and  patting  my  curls  nicely  in 
front  of  a  looking-glass.  It  was  so  frightfully  im- 
portant not  to  make  a  false  step. 

My  only  excuse  for  going  about  with  Miss  Whitaker 
at  all  was  the  complete  success  of  the  role  for  which 
she  had  so  skilfully  prepared  me.  Never  for  a 
moment  was  there  any  suspicion  of  my  identity. 

On  one  occasion,  in  the  early  days  of  my  disguise, 
when  we  were  sight-seeing  at  Eyoub,  some  Turkish 
ladies  stopped  to  talk  to  us.  I  remained  silent,  of 
course,  but  I  watched  them  narrowly  and  came  to  the 


A  CITY  OF  DISGUISES  161 

conclusion  that  they  saw  nothing  amiss.  My  eyes, 
incidentally,  were  as  well  painted  as  theirs.  Now, 
if  two  elderly  and  inquisitive  ladies  cannot  detect  a 
flaw  in  one's  form  or  features,  it  is  unlikely  that 
any  mere  male  could  be  cleverer  than  they. 

The  mere  males,  alas,  were  enthralled  by  my  ap- 
pearance. Once  or  twice  an  embarrassing  situation 
was  narrowly  averted.  The  road  behind  the  Pera 
Palace  Hotel  is  dark,  and  we  used  to  ascend  it  in 
fear  and  trembling.  But  although  we  were  followed 
sometimes  no  one  ever  presumed  to  speak  to  us. 

Miss  Whitaker  had  found  me  by  now  a  delightful 
roof  near  the  houste  in  which  I  took  my  meals,  and 
this  place  was  free  from  all  life  smaller  than  a  rat. 
Here  I  was  able  to  make  my  plans  in  peace,  with  no 
fear  of  treachery,  for,  so  cleverly  had  Miss  Whitaker 
arranged  matters,  no  one  knew  I  was  not  a  woman. 

As  Mademoiselle  Josephine,  an  eccentric  German 
governess,  who  suffered  from  consumption  (and  there- 
fore spoke  very  low  and  huskily)  I  used  to  pass  my 
nights  a  belle  etoile,  after  well-spent  days  in  cafes, 
where  my  plans  were  maturing.  The  stars  in  their 
courses  seemed  to  be  on  my  side.  No  longer,  as  when 
a  fretful  prisoner,  did  I  think  their  quiet  shining  was 
a  reminder  of  man's  minuteness  in  the  schemes  of 
God.  I  felt  now  that  man  could  make  his  destiny. 
And  when  that  destiny  was  shaped  by  hands  such 


162  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

as  those  that  helped  me,  the  world  was  a  beautiful 
place.  Good  angels  were  here  on  earth,  at  "our  own 
clay-shuttered  doors.  .  .  ." 

Two  little  girls,  to  whom  I  used  to  bring  chocolates, 
used  to  come  up  in  the  evening  and  kiss  my  hand, 
wishing  me  good-night.  They  thought  I  was  the 
most  amusing  governess  they  had  ever  met.  Their 
mother,  a  kind  old  lady  who  offered  me  cough  mix- 
tures, must  have  thought  me  rather  odd,  but  then 
she  was  prepared  to  make  allowances  for  foreigners, 
especially  in  war  time.  To  have  a  reason  for  wishing 
to  be  inconspicuous  was  nothing  unusual  in  those 
days,  whether  one  was  German,  Jew,  or  Greek,  or 
male  or  female. 

Of  various  opportunities  which  came  my  way  the 
most  practical  and  attractive  was  that  suggested  by 
the  Russian  colonel.  His  repatriation  to  the  Cau- 
casus was  now  only  a  matter  of  days.  He  had  not 
only  got  his  own  passport,  but  also  a  passport  for  a 
servant.  That  servant  was  to  be  myself.  In  order 
to  discuss  plans,  we  found  the  safest  rendezvous  was 
the  open-air  cafe  of  the  Petits  Champs.  This  place 
was  crowded  with  fashionable  people,  and  although 
both  he  and  Miss  Whitaker  were  constantly  shadowed 
by  detectives,  there  was  nothing  at  all  suspicious  in 
their  being  seen  at  tea-time  in  the  company  of  an 
elegantly  dressed  German  lady. 

The  German  lady  was  obviously  not  as  young  as  she 


A  CITY  OF  DISGUISES  163 

tried  to  appear,  but  then  there  was  nothing  unusual 
about  that.  She  was  also  rather  gauche  in  her  move- 
ments, but  this  again  was  not  out  of  keeping  with  the 
part. 

"In  a  fortnight's  time  we  will  be  having  tea  at 
Tiflis,"  the  Russian  colonel  used  to  say — "I  will  raise 
two  regiments  of  cavalry  and  take  them  to  kill  the 
Bolsheviks.  You  shall  be  my  adjutant." 

"With  the  greatest  pleasure  in  the  world,  mon 
colonel.  But  please  do  not  speak  so  loud." 

"Ah,  that  sacre  detective!  I  had  forgotten  him. 
Soon  we  will  not  have  to  think  of  such  things." 

"Yes,  but  at  the  present  moment  your  own  par- 
ticular shadow  is  trying  to  listen  to  what  you  are  say- 
ing," I  remarked  in  low  tones. 

At  once  the  colonel's  voice  assumed  a  softer  note. 

"Mais  Josephine,  ma  petite,  ecoutes  done  .  .  . 
There,  he's  passed.  Everything  is  ready.  I  have 
got  you  a  Russian  soldier's  uniform.  You  have  only 
to  put  this  on,  and  follow  me  on  board  when  I  go." 

"And  if  someone  asks  me  who  I  am?" 

"You  are  my  Georgian  servant.  And  you  can 
only  speak  Georgian.  Just  say  this — " 

There  followed  a  tongue-twisting  sentence,  which 
I  tried  to  memorise. 

Meanwhile  the  band  played,  and  people  passed, 
and  inquisitive  eyes  were  turned  in  our  direction. 

"That's  a   spy  who  knows   me,"   Miss  Whitaker 


164  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

would  say.  "Encore  une  tasse,  mademoiselle? 
Non?  Je  pense  que  nous  devrions  parter" 

"We'll  settle  the  final  details  to-morrow,"  I  whis- 
pered. 

"Righto.  Remember  to  let  your  beard  grow.  I 
couldn't  have  a  smooth-faced  orderly." 

"Eh  bien,  mille  mercis,  colonel"  said  I,  giving 
him  my  hand. 

He  held  it  a  moment,  bowing. 

"  Ah,  Josephine,  comme  je  f  adore.  .  .  ." 

"A  demain,  alors!" 

And  with  a  simper,  I  left  my  gallant  and  dapper 
cavalier  to  pay  the  bill. 


CHAPTER  X 

RECAPTURED 

AT  five  o'clock  one  morning  Mademoiselle  Josephine 
received  a  staggering  note  from  the  Russian  colonel  to 
say  that  he  had  had  to  leave  at  a  moment's  notice  for 
the  Caucasus  under  a  Turkish  guard,  and  that  there 
was  no  prospect  at  all  of  his  taking  his  dear  Josephine 
with  him. 

Thus  my  plan  had  failed.  It  was  not  the  colonel's 
fault,  but  it  was  annoying  all  the  same.  I  had 
wasted  both  time  and  money,  provisions  and  oppor- 
tunities, and  had  to  begin  all  over  again. 

I  now  decided  that  I  would  not  continue  in  my 
disguise  as  a  girl.  It  was  too  nerve-racking  to  begin 
with,  and  also,  as  a  girl,  I  could  not  go  down  myself 
to  the  docks  and  arrange  matters  at  first-hand. 

I  had  already  wasted  time  enough.  During  the 
month  that  had  elapsed  Robin  had  been  recaptured, 
other  officers  had  escaped,  the  whole  course  of  the 
war  was  changing,  and  here  was  I  still  embusque  in 
Constantinople. 

Something  must  be  done,  and,  as  usual,  my  good 
angel  did  it  for  me.  She  bought  me  a  small  up- 

165 


166  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

turned  moustache,  spectacles,  hair  dye,  a  second-hand 
suit,  a  stained  white  waistcoat  which  I  ornamented 
with  a  large  nickel  gilt  watch-chain,  a  pair  of  old 
elastic-sided  boots  (price  £7),  an  ebony  cane  with  a 
silver  top,  and  a  bowler  hat  which  I  perched  rakishly 
askew.  I  was  a  Hungarian  mechanic,  out  of  a  job. 
I  had  lost  my  place  at  the  munition  factory  near  San 
Stefano.  But  I  was  not  down-hearted.  My  nails 
were  oily  and  my  antecedents  doubtful,  but  I  drank 
my  beer  and  smoked  my  cigars  and  looked  on  life 
brightly  through  my  spectacles. 

I  did  not  avoid  the  Boche;  in  fact,  I  frequently 
drank  beer  with  him.  The  non-Latin  races  are  not 
inquisitive  as  a  rule.  They  cared  little  whether  I 
was  Swiss  or  Dutch  or  Hungarian,  and  I  frequently 
claimed  all  three  nationalities.  They  did  not  even 
think  it  odd  when,  on  one  occasion,  I  said  that  I  had 
been  born  in  Scandinavia  and  later  that  I  was  a  nat- 
uralised Hungarian,  and  later  again  (when  a  Jewish 
gentleman  with  military  boots  joined  us,  whom  I 
recognised  to  be  a  Government  informer,  paid  to  pick 
up  information)  that  I  was  really  of  Russian  parent- 
age and  that  I  had  a  passport  to  this  effect  (which  I 
showed  to  the  company  present)  signed  by  Djevad 
Bey,  the  military  commandant  of  Constantinople,  per- 
mitting me  to  proceed  to  Russia  and  ordering  that 
every  facility  should  be  given  to  me  at  the  custom- 
house. 


RECAPTURED  167 

This  forged  passport  was  a  source  of  perplexity  to 
me  at  the  time,  and  later  it  was  to  be  the  cause  of 
great  discomfort.  I  had  bought  it  for  ten  pounds 
from  the  gentleman  whose  pumicestone  engraving  die 
reposed  at  the  bottom  of  the  -cistern.  It  was  an 
ornate  affair,  duly  stamped  and  sealed,  and  signed 
with  a  Turkish  flourish.  But  I  could  not  bring  my- 
self to  believe  that  it  would  get  me  through  the  pass- 
port office,  the  douane,  and  the  medical  station  at 
the  entrance  to  the  Bosporus.  Some  hitch  would 
certainly  have  occurred. 

However,  it  impressed  the  company  in  the  cafe. 
People  generally  take  one  at  one's  own  valuation,  and 
the  few  secret  agents  to  whom  I  spoke  obviously 
considered  that  I  was  not  a  likely  person  to  be  black- 
mailed. With  the  Greeks  I  was  certainly  popular. 
The  seedy-smart  polyglot  youth  who  was  so  liberal 
with  his  cigars  (which  were  rather  a  rarity  then)  and 
so  fond  of  talking  politics  and  drinking  beer,  gen- 
erally found  himself  in  congenial  company.  We 
talked  much  of  revolution. 

"We  will  crucify  the  Young  Turks,"  said  a  Greek 
to  me  one  day,  "and  then  eat  them  in  little  bits.  We 
will — "  (His  expressive  hands  suddenly  paused  in 
mid-gesture,  and  his  mouth  dropped  open,  but  only 
for  an  instant.  He  had  seen  a  detective  enter). — 
"We  will  continue  to  preserve  our  dignity  and  remain 
calm  whatever  happens,"  he  concluded  neatly. 


168  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

But  calm  the  Greeks  certainly  were  not. 

In  the  cellar  of  the  German  hotel  the  Greek  pro- 
prietor displayed  one  night  a  collection  of  rusty 
swords  and  old  revolvers  which  were  the  nucleus  of 
the  New  Age  of  brotherly  love,  when  the  streets  were 
to  run  with  Turkish  hlood,  and  the  Cross  replace  the 
Crescent  in  San  Sofia.  I  was  privileged  to  be  pres- 
ent at  this  conclave  of  desperadoes.  After  swearing 
each  other  to  eternal  secrecy  we  sampled  some  of  the 
contents  of  our  host's  cellar,  and  talked  very  big 
about  what  we  were  going  to  do.  But  our  host,  be- 
yond dancing  a  hornpipe  with  two  sailors  and  declar- 
ing that  he  was  going  to  murder  everybody  in  the 
hotel  (after  they  had  paid  their  bills)  propounded 
no  very  definite  scheme. 

Out  of  this  atmosphere  of  melodrama,  one  emerged 
into  the  sombre,  silent  streets  and  went  rather  fur- 
tively home  feeling  one  had  been  a  fool  to  consort 
with  fools. 

Behind  the  lattices  of  the  hareems,  it  was  said  that 
Enver  Pasha's  day  was  done.  The  new  Sultan  had 
thrown  him  out  of  the  palace,  neck  and  crop.  There 
was  to  be  an  enquiry  into  the  means  by  which  he  had 
acquired  huge  farms  round  Constantinople;  farms 
which  were  supposed  to  be  purchased  from  the  pro- 
ceeds of  a  corner  in  milk  that  had  killed  many  chil- 
dren. The  Custodians  of  the  Hareem  (and  in  Turkey 
these  tall,  flat-chested  individuals  have  positions  of 


RECAPTURED  169 

great  power:  the  Chief  of  the  White  Custodians,  for 
instance,  is  one  of  the  high  dignitaries  of  the  Empire, 
and  ranks  with  a  Lord  Chamberlain)  had  long  been 
intriguing  against  the  Committee  and  especially 
against  the  German  element  with  Enver  at  its  head. 

A  recent  suicide  in  the  main  street  of  Constanti- 
nople has  been  the  lifting  of  the  corner  of  the  curtain 
that  hid  a  great  unrest  at  the  Sultan's  palace.  A 
Turkish  officer  in  full  uniform  had  been  seen  run- 
ning for  dear  life  down  the  Grand  Rue  de  Pera, 
pursued  by  policemen.  The  officer  took  refuge  in 
the  Turkish  Club,  but  he  was  refused  asylum  there. 
The  policemen  crowded  into  the  entrance  hall  to 
arrest  him,  while  the  fugitive  dashed  upstairs  to  the 
card-room.  Finding,  however,  that  he  could  not 
avoid  arrest,  he  threw  himself  out  of  the  window  and 
was  instantly  killed  on  the  pavement  below.  For 
some  time  the  corpse,  dressed  in  the  uniform  of  the 
Yildiz  Guards,  blocked  all  the  traffic  of  the  city. 

A  few  days  later  a  British  air-raid  gave  the  Con- 
stantinopolitans  something  new  to  think  about.  It 
was  a  stifling  night,  and  I  was  dozing  and  listening 
to  the  mosquitoes  that  buzzed  round  me,  when  their 
drone  seemed  to  grow  louder  and  louder.  I  lay 
quite  still,  thinking  that  another  raid  would  be  too 
good  to  be  true.  But  presently  there  was  no  doubt 
about  it.  Invisible,  but  very  audible,  the  British 
squadron  was  sailing  overhead.  I  jumped  up  and 


170  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

at  that  moment  the  Turks  put  up  their  barrage.  Bang! 
Boom!  Whizz!  Kk— kk— kk!  All  the  little  voices 
of  civilisation  were  speaking. 

Greeks  crowded  into  the  streets,  and  clapped  their 
hands  when  the  crash  and  rumble  of  a  bomb  was 
heard  in  the  Turkish  quarter  of  Stamboul. 

"The  Sultan  is  going  to  make  peace,"  they  told 
me.  "He  has  refused  to  gird  on  the  Sword  of  Oth- 
man  until  the  Committee  of  Union  and  Progress  give 
an  account  of  their  funds." 

"Hurrah  for  the  English!"  shouted  others,  quite  un- 
dismayed by  the  shrapnel  and  falling  pieces  of  shell. 

Here  are  some  chance  remarks,  actually  heard 
during  air  raids. 

"Ah!  Here  is  the  revolution  at  last!"  said  a  Turk- 
ish officer  in  a  chemist's  shop  in  the  Grand  Rue  de 
Pera,  thinking  the  firing  meant  the  downfall  of  Enver 
Pasha  and  his  gang. 

"Bread  costs  four  shillings  a  two-pound  loaf,"  said 
an  Armenian  in  the  suburb  of  Chichli — "and  as  often 
as  not  there  is  a  stone  or  half  a  mouse  thrown  into 
the  four  shillings'  worth,  for  luck.  May  this  gang 
of  swindlers  perish!" 

"Allah,  send  the  English  soon,"  wailed  a  Turkish 
widow  in  a  hovel  in  Stamboul,  where  she  was  living 
with  her  five  starving  children — "we  are  being  killed 
by  inches  now;  it  would  be  better  to  be  killed  quickly 
by  bombs.  The  English  cannot  be  worse  than  Enver." 


RECAPTURED  171 

This  indeed  was  the  general  opinion  in  Con- 
stantinople. Few  of  the  population,  outside  the  high 
officials,  bore  us  any  grudge.  The  thieving  of  the 
Young  Turks  was  on  as  vast  a  scale  as  their  ambition. 
From  needy  adventurers  they  had  become  the  pros- 
perous potentates  of  an  Empire.  No  country  surely 
has  ever  been  the  prey  of  such  desperate  and  deter- 
mined men. 

The  air-raids  were  one  of  the  first  causes  of  their 
weakening  hold  on  the  people.  The  moral  effect  of 
these  demonstrations  was  incalculable,  coming  as  it 
did  at  a  time  when  the  Sultan  was  supposed  to  be  in 
favour  of  peace. 

Peace  indeed  was  the  only  faint  hope  of  salvation 
that  remained  to  the  very  poor.  Milk  had  almost 
disappeared  from  the  open  market,  and  for  some 
time  past  children  had  been  exposed  in  the  street, 
their  mothers  being  unable  to  support  them  any 
longer. 

Each  night  when  I  passed  the  Petits  Champs,  I 
saw  a  row  of  starving  children,  poor  little  living  pro- 
tests of  humanity  against  the  barbarisms  of  war  and 
the  cruelty  of  profiteers,  huddled  on  the  pavement, 
mute,  uncomplaining,  too  weak  to  even  ask  for  alms. 

And  Bedri  Bey,  sometime  Prefect  of  Police  at  Con- 
stantinople, when  appealed  to,  said: 

"Bah!     Les  pauvres,  quits  cr event." 


172  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

Although  politics  were  interesting  enough,  escape 
was  my  first  pre-occupation.  It  was  necessary  to  ap- 
proach the  harbour  officials  with  caution,  and  they, 
on  their  side,  although  ready  enough  to  help  with 
suggestions,  seemed  inclined  to  shelve  all  the  actual 
work  onto  a  person  or  persons  unknown,  who  re- 
mained in  the  background.  It  was  very  difficult  to 
get  at  the  principals. 

One  of  the  chief  agents  of  escape,  however,  I  met 
one  day  in  the  Grand  Rue  de  Pera.  He  was  a  most 
remarkable  man.  Intrigue  was  the  breath  of  his  nos- 
trils, and  although  he  had  made  thousands  of  pounds 
by  helping  rich  refugees  out  of  the  country,  he  was 
really  more  interested  in  politics  than  pelf.  He  laid 
the  groundwork  of  such  knowledge  as  I  acquired  of 
Constantinople. 

Incidentally,  in  the  course  of  our  conversation,  a 
squad  of  Russian  officer  prisoners  passed,  accom- 
panied by  two  sentries  whom  I  knew  quite  well.  So 
confident  did  I  feel  of  not  being  recognised,  that  I 
said  a  few  words  to  one  of  the  Russians,  while  their 
escort  glanced  at  me  with  faces  perfectly  blank.  They 
had  not  the  vaguest  idea  who  I  was. 

To  get  away  from  Constantinople,  the  escape  mer- 
chant told  me,  was  a  matter  of  passing  the  custom- 
house. Formerly  this  had  been  easy,  but  now  every 
ship  was  searched  from  stem  to  stern  and  from  deck 
to  keelson.  Also  every  skipper  was  a  Mohammedan. 


RECAPTURED  173 

All  Christians  had  been  recently  deprived  of  their 
positions. 

Still,  Mohammedans  are  not  an  unbribable  people, 
and  something  might  possibly  be  done  for  me.  In 
fact,  that  very  day  he  had  heard  of  a  certain  Lazz 
shipmaster,  who  was  going  over  to  the  Caucasus  in 
his  own  boat,  and  who  would  be  prepared  to  take  a 
few  passengers  for  a  consideration. 

Later  in  the  same  day  I  heard  that  two  other  of- 
ficers, who  had  escaped  about  a  week  before  (by 
bolting  under  a  train  in  Haidar  Pasha  railway 
station),  were  already  in  touch  with  this  Lazz.  I 
went  to  see  them  early  the  following  morning  and  we 
agreed  to  charter  the  boat  between  us,  so  as  to  reduce 
expenses. 

My  two  friends  were  living  in  the  house  of  one 
Theodore,  a  Greek  waiter  at  a  restaurant  in  Sirkedji, 
who  believed  that  they,  as  well  as  myself,  were  Ger- 
mans. 

The  Lazz,  who  came  to  visit  us,  was  absolutely  as- 
tounded when  we  proclaimed  ourselves  as  British  of- 
ficers: he  had  been  under  the  impression  that  we  were 
some  sort  of  Turkish  subject.  However,  all  pas- 
sengers were  grist  to  his  mill,  and  British  officers 
who  talked  glibly  of  gold  payments  were  not  people 
to  be  neglected.  After  haggling  about  terms,  we 
made  an  appointment  for  the  next  day,  and  parted 
with  some  cordiality. 


174  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

On  the  morrow,  punctual  to  our  appointments,  the 
Lazz  and  I  again  arrived  at  Theodore's  house  to  con- 
fer further  with  my  two  friends. 

As  it  was  a  very  hot  afternoon,  I  took  off  my  coat 
and  my  false  moustache,  before  plunging  into  the  de- 
tails of  our  departure.  It  was  evident  that  the  Lazz 
was  in  a  hurry  to  be  off.  His  cargo  was  complete, 
he  said.  He  had  only  to  take  in  petrol  for  his  mptor 
before  leaving  on  the  following  day.  There  re- 
mained the  question  of  money,  and  after  much  argu- 
ment we  settled  to  pay  him  five  hundred  pounds  on 
arrival  at  the  port  of  Poti  in  the  Caucasus,  and  one 
hundred  pounds  advance  for  fuel  immediately.  He 
was  to  provide  the  disguises  necessary  for  us  to  pass 
the  customs  at  the  Bosporus.  We  were  each  of  us 
to  don  a  black  dress  and  a  black  veil  and  to  sit  in 
a  row  in  his  cabin,  refusing  to  move  or  to  speak  if  in- 
terrogated. Muslim  ladies,  he  assured  us,  had  fre- 
quently refused  to  undergo  any  scrutiny  whatever  at 
the  Customs,  and  provided  they  were  vouched  for  by 
some  responsible  person  on  board,  the  gallant  excise- 
men were  fain  to  let  them  pass.  As  his  very  own 
wives,  said  the  Lazz,  no  harm  could  possibly  come 
to  us,  provided  of  course  we  remained  sitting,  and 
silent,  throughout  the  inspection. 

This  seemed  a  very  satisfactory  scheme,  for 
obviously  whatever  risks  we  ran,  our  friend  the  Lazz 
would  run  them  too. 


RECAPTURED  175 

By  evening  our  pact  was  complete.  We  handed 
over  a  hundred  pounds,  and  the  Lazz  promised  faith- 
fully that  he  would  have  the  boat  ready  and  our  dis- 
guises prepared  by  nightfall  on  the  following  day, 
when  we  would  sail  for  Russia. 

Hardly  had  the  money  changed  hands  before  I  no- 
ticed a  suspicious-looking  individual  in  the  street 
below.  Presently  he  was  joined  by  another  detec- 
tive, whom  I  recognised. 

Things  looked  ugly. 

We  took  the  Lazz  cautiously  to  the  window. 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  those  men?"  we 
asked. 

He  turned  deathly  pale,  but  swore  he  had  never 
seen  them  before.  I  do  not  think  he  had.  His  fear 
was  genuine. 

"Let  me  get  out!  Let  me  get  out!"  he  said,  mak- 
ing a  bolt  for  the  door. 

And  he  went.  There  was  no  use  in  trying  to  stop 
him. 

One  of  my  friends  and  I  now  went  downstairs, 
while  the  third  member  of  our  party  stayed  behind  to 
hide  a  few  odds  and  ends  of  gear,  in  case  the  house 
was  searched. 

We  waited  downstairs,  making  light  of  our  fears, 
and  fighting  a  premonition  of  disaster. 

Presently  there  was  a  loud  tapping  on  the  door. 
Even  if  it  was  the  police,  I  thought,  our  disguises 


176  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

would  carry  us  through.  Then  I  noticed  that  my 
friend  was  in  shirt  sleeves.  I  put  on  my  spectacles 
and  tried  to  stick  on  my  moustache  again,  but  the 
gum  from  it  had  gone. 

The  rapping  at  the  door  became  louder  and  louder, 
and  presently  it  was  opened  by  a  flustered  female. 

In  trooped  six  detectives,  including  the  man  I  had 
recognised,  who  was  apparently  their  leader. 

"There  are  some  British  officers  hiding  here,"  he 
said  fiercely  to  the  woman;  "show  me  where  they 
are." 

While  this  scene  was  passing  in  the  entrance  hall, 
we  were  behind  the  door  of  the  pantry. 

A  detective  came  in  and  caught  my  friend.  Mean- 
while two  others  were  pommelling  the  unfortunate 
woman  to  make  her  say  where  we  were.  She  kept 
pleading  that  she  knew  nothing  about  any  British 
officers. 

Another  instant,  and  I  should  have  been  found. 
So  I  came  out  from  behind  the  pantry  door,  and 
crossed  the  entrance  hall. 

In  the  doorway  stood  a  burly  policeman,  who  said 
"Yok,  yok,"  when  I  attempted  to  pass  him. 

Had  I  had  the  requisite  nerve  I  believe  I  could 
have  bluffed  this  man.  "Stand  aside,  schweinhund," 
or  words  to  that  eifect  would  probably  have  got  me 
past.  But  I  hesitated,  and  was  lost. 


RECAPTURED  177 

My  hand  flew  to  my  breast  pocket,  where  the  forged 
passport  lay,  and  my  false  moustache. 

"Seize  that  man  and  search  him,"  said  the  head 
detective,  looking  over  the  banisters.  Then  he  went 
upstairs,  dragging  the  woman  with  him. 

My  arms  were  instantly  caught  from  behind,  while 
a  seedy-looking  youth,  who  was  probably  a  pick- 
pocket in  his  spare  time,  ran  his  fingers  over  my 
clothes.  My  wad  of  money,  watch,  compass,  pass- 
port, moustache,  everything  was  put  into  a  small  can- 
vas bag,  and  I  was  then  taken  to  the  opposite  corner 
of  the  room  to  that  in  which  my  friend  sat,  and  told 
not  to  move  under  pain  of  death.  A  levelled  re- 
volver emphasised  the  injunction. 

Presently  there  were  cries  of  women  heard  from 
the  attic,  then  there  was  a  loud  crash,  and  I  knew 
that  my  friend  had  fallen  through  the  trap-door  lead- 
ing to  the  roof. 

That  was  the  last  of  my  freedom,  for  the  time. 
Thus  suddenly  my  five  weeks'  scheming  was  ended. 

Each  of  us  was  taken  charge  of  by  two  policemen, 
who  linked  their  arms  in  ours.  Presently  the  order 
to  march  was  given,  and  a  dismal  procession,  con- 
sisting of  two  weeping  women,  a  seedy-smart  individ- 
ual in  a  bowler  hat,  two  youths  in  slippers  and  shirt 
sleeves,  and  a  Greek  waiter,  could  be  seen  winding 
their  way  to  the  Central  Jail  of  Stamboul. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  BLACK  HOLE  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE 

BEFORE  leaving  we  had  protested  strongly  against  the 
treatment  of  the  women  in  the  house. 

"But  they  are  Turkish  subjects,"  said  the  detec- 
tives. 

"Anyway,  they  are  innocent,"  we  protested. 

But  this  had  little  effect.  Themistocle  and  his  un- 
fortunate family  were  marched  off  behind  us  to  the 
Central  Jail.  I  think,  however,  that  our  protest  was 
not  quite  in  vain,  for  it  gave  the  women  courage. 
When  I  last  saw  them,  before  being  taken  to  the  Chief 
of  Police,  they  had  dried  their  tears.  The  twins, 
I  was  glad  to  see,  had  been  allowed  to  remain  in 
the  house  when  we  were  captured. 

The  Chief  of  Police  congratulated  us  on  being  safe 
once  more  in  Turkish  hands. 

"Yes,  we  are  comfortably  back  in  prison,"  I  said 
with  a  faint  smile,  "and  therefore  there  is  surely 
no  harm  in  giving  us  back  the  personal  trifles  that 
the  detectives  took  from  us." 

"I  cannot  give  you  your  papers,"  he  said.     "There 

is  a  forged  passport  here,  amongst  other  things." 
178 


BLACK  HOLE  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE  179 

"Very  well,  do  as  you  like  about  that,"  I  said, 
shrugging  my  shoulders,  "but  surely  my  empty 
pocket-book  and  my  watch  might  be  returned." 

To  this  he  agreed,  whereupon  he  handed  me: — 

(a)  my  pocket-book,  containing  five  pounds  hid- 
den in  the  lining. 

(b)  my  watch  and  a  compass,  which  he  mistook 
for  another  timepiece. 

(c)  my  false  moustache,  which  had  been  captured 
on  my  person. 

I  was  in  an  agony  of  anxiety  about  this  moustache. 
Had  the  police  enquired  at  the  only  two  hairdressers 
where  such  things  were  made,  they  would  have  found 
that  Miss  Whitaker  had  ordered  it  for  me  only  ten 
days  before.  But  now  it  was  safely  in  my  possession 
again.  I  had  the  only  connecting  link  of  evidence 
that  might  incriminate  Miss  Whitaker  in  my  trouser 
pocket,  and  was  tearing  it  to  shreds  as  I  talked  to 
the  chief  of  police. 

The  interview  passed  on  a  note  of  felicitation,  un- 
til the  very  end.  After  praising  the  smart  way  his 
men  had  surrounded  the  house  and  receiving  his  con- 
gratulations on  our  escapes,  just  as  if  the  whole  thing 
was  a  game,  we  said  that  there  was  one  criticism  we 
had  to  make  on  police  methods,  and  that  was  their 
treatment  of  women. 

"They  are  Turkish  subjects,"  snapped  the  chief 
of  police,  suddenly  showing  his  teeth,  like  an  animal. 


180  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

"They  are  women,"  we  retorted,  "and  they  are 
innocent.  If  they  are  maltreated — " 

"I  know  how  to  manage  my  affairs,"  he  said  with 
a  gasp. 

"Certainly.  But  if  they  are  maltreated  you  will 
be  responsible  after  the  war." 

To  this  he  made  no  reply. 

We  were  removed  without  further  ado,  and  after 
being  photographed  and  measured  in  the  most  ap- 
proved fashion  for  criminals,  we  were  taken  up  long 
flights  of  stairs,  and  across  a  roof  to  the  quarters  for 
prisoners  awaiting  trial.  Here  we  were  allotted  sep- 
arate cells,  where  we  were  to  pass  the  next  few  days 
in  strict  isolation. 

To  my  amazement  (for  I  knew  something  of  Turk- 
ish prisons)  these  cells  were  scrupulously  clean.  A 
bed,  a  table,  and  a  chair  were  in  each  apartment,  all 
very  firm  and  four-square,  as  if  designed  to  with- 
stand any  access  of  fury  or  despair  on  the  prisoner's 
part.  There  was  electric  light  in  the  ceiling,  covered 
with  wire  netting.  Walls  and  woodwork  were  of  a 
neutral  colour.  The  windows,  which  were  barred, 
had  a  convenient  arrangement  for  regulating  the 
ventilation.  The  heavy  door,  which  admitted  no 
sound,  was  provided  with  a  sliding  hatch,  which  could 
be  opened  by  the  warders  at  will  for  purposes  of  in- 
vestigation. Everything  was  hideously  efficient. 

Turkey  is  a  country  of  surprises,  but  I  was  not 


BLACK  HOLE  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE    181 

prepared  for  this.  I  would  have  preferred  something 
more  picturesque.  One's  mind,  after  the  testing 
climax  of  recapture,  craves  for  new  doses  of  excite- 
ment. 

The  brain  of  a  criminal,  after  he  has  been  appre- 
hended, must  be  a  turmoil  of  thought.  He  curses  his 
stupidity,  or  his  luck,  or  his  associates.  He  longs 
to  explain  and  defend  himself.  Instead  of  which 
he  is  left  in  silence,  in  a  drab  room,  with  no  com- 
pany but  his  thoughts. 

My  own  thoughts  were  most  unpleasant.  I  had 
failed  miserably,  and  innocent  people  were  suffering 
as  the  result. 

After  five  weeks  of  effort,  I  was  further  than  ever 
from  escape.  Worse  than  all,  Miss  Whitaker  was  in 
danger.  Never  again  shall  I  pass  such  dismal  hours. 
I  see  myself  now,  seated  on  that  solid  chair  with  head 
on  arms,  bent  over  that  efficient  table.  A  prisoner's 
heart  must  soon  turn  to  stone. 

But  although  our  surroundings  were  inhuman,  one 
of  our  gaolers  had  a  generous  heart.  He  opened  the 
slot  in  my  door  merely  to  say  he  was  sorry  about  it 
all  and  that  the  women  were  all  right.  It  is  little 
actions  such  as  these  that  so  often  light  the  darkest 
hours  of  life.  The  man  was  a  European  Turk. 

It  was  urgently  necessary  to  communicate  with 
my  fellow-prisoners,  in  order  to  arrange  to  tell  the 
same  story.  My  friend  next  door  solved  the  prob- 


182  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

lem  by  bawling  up  through  his  barred  window  at  the 
top  of  his  voice  that  he  would  leave  a  note  for  me 
in  the  wash  place. 

"Right  you  are,"  I  howled  in  answer,  and  instantly 
the  slot  of  my  door  opened,  and  I  had  to  explain  that 
I  was  singing. 

Already,  interest  was  beginning  to  creep  back  into 
one's  life.  I  found  the  note  in  the  wash  place,  read 
it  secretly,  thought  over  my  answer,  and  transcribed 
the  message  onto  a  cigarette  paper.  Having  no  writ- 
ing instrument,  I  used  the  end  of  a  match  dipped  into 
an  ink  prepared  from  tobacco  juice  and  ash.  By 
these  simple  means  we  established  a  regular  means 
of  communication  and  before  forty-eight  hours  of 
our  strict  seclusion  had  elapsed  we  were  all  three 
in  possession  of  a  complete,  circumstantial,  and 
fictitious  account  of  our  adventures  prior  to  cap- 
ture. 

When  not  engaged  on  reminiscences,  I  was  gen- 
erally pacing  my  cell,  or  trying  to  invent  some  new 
form  of  exercise  to  keep  myself  fit.  But  at  times 
energy  failed  and  one  nearly  gnashed  one's  teeth 
at  the  futility  of  it  all. 

One  day,  when  I  was  nearly  engaged  in  this  process, 
the  slot  in  my  door  was  furtively  withdrawn,  and, 
instead  of  a  gaoler,  a  very  comely  vision  appeared  at 
the  observation  hatch.  A  pair  of  laughing  black  eyes 
were  looking  in  on  me.  She  wrinkled  her  nose,  and 


BLACK  HOLE  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE    183 

laughed.  I  jumped  up,  thinking  I  was  dreaming, 
and  hoping  the  dream  would  continue.  At  the  same 
moment  something  dropped  on  to  my  floor.  Then 
the  trap-door  was  softly  shut  to. 

I  found  a  tiny  stump  of  lead-pencil.  That  was 
proof  of  the  reality  of  my  vision. 

Countless  excuses  to  leave  my  cell,  and  voluminous 
correspondence  with  the  pencil's  aid,  eventually  en- 
abled me  to  find  out  that  she  was  an  Armenian  girl, 
awaiting  trial,  who  took  a  deep  interest  in  us.  At 
great  risk  to  herself,  she  had  provided  the  three  of 
us  with  writing  instruments.  Except  for  a  brief 
glimpse  and  a  mumbled  word,  I  was  never  able  to 
thank  her,  however,  owing  to  circumstances  beyond 
our  control. 

On  the  fourth  day  we  were  suddenly  transferred 
to  the  Military  Prison  in  the  square  of  the  Seras- 
kerat. 

As  usual  in  Turkey,  our  move  was  sudden  and  un- 
expected. That  morning,  on  complaining  at  mid-day 
that  I  had  as  yet  received  no  food,  I  was  told  that 
inshallak — if  God  pleased — it  would  arrive  in  due 
course. 

Instead  of  a  belated  breakfast,  however,  a  posse 
of  policemen  arrived,  and  we  started  on  our  jour- 
neys again:  my  friends  still  in  shirt  sleeves  and  slip- 
pers, and  myself  still  in  my  bowler  hat,  although  I 
did  not  now  wear  it  so  rakishly. 

But  we  were  fairly  cheery.     We  had  learnt  (no 


184  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

matter  how)  that  the  females  of  Themistocle's  family 
would  soon  be  released,  and  that  Themistocle  him- 
self, although  still  in  duress,  would  not  suffer  any 
extreme  fate.  Also,  it  was  by  now  fairly  obvious 
that  Miss  Whitaker  would  not  be  apprehended,  as 
sufficient  evidence  was  not  obtainable  against  her. 
She  had  covered  her  tracks  too  well.  All  things  con- 
sidered, there  was  no  cause  for  depression. 

But  waiting  is  hungry  work.  That  afternoon  still 
saw  us,  fretful  and  unfed,  waiting  outside  the  office 
of  Djevad  Bey,  the  military  commandant  of  Con- 
stantinople. 

At  last  I  was  taken  into  an  ornate  room,  where  I 
had  my  first  talk  with  this  redoubtable  individual, 
who  was  popularly  supposed  to  be  the  jackal  of  the 
Young  Turks.  Anyone  less  like  an  executioner  I 
have  never  seen.  He  was  plump,  well-dressed,  with 
humorous  grey  eyes.  He  wore  long,  rather  well- 
fitting  boats,  and  smoked  his  cigarettes  from  a  long 
amber  holder.  He  also  had  a  long  amber  moustache, 
which  was  being  trained  Kaiser-wise. 

I  stood  before  him  at  attention. 

"About  this  forged  passport,"  he  began.  "Do 
gentlemen  in  your  country  forge  each  other's  signa- 
tures?" 

"It  is  not  usual,"  I  admitted. 

"Then  you,  as  an  English  gentleman,  gurely  did 
not  counterfeit  my  writing?" 


BLACK  HOLE  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE    185 

"Oh,  no!  I  wouldn't  dream  of  doing  such  a 
thing." 

"Then  how  do  you  account  for  this  passport  being 
in  your  possession?" 

I  remained  silent. 

"Who  forged  it?"  he  insisted. 

"May  I  look?"  said  I.  "Is  that  really  your  signa- 
ture?" 

"It  is  indeed.  With  it  you  could  easily  have  got 
out  of  the  country." 

"What  an  idiot  I  was  not  to  use  it!"  I  said  with 
quite  unfeigned  annoyance. 

"You  were!"  he  laughed — "they  would  have 
passed  you  straight  through  the  Customs  on  seeing 
this." 

I  felt  very  faint  at  this  moment,  and  staggered 
against  the  table.  But  I  was  not  offered  a  seat.  I 
quite  forget  his  next  few  remarks,  but  I  know  that 
I  committed  myself  to  a  story  that  I  had  bought  the 
passport  from  a  man  in  a  restaurant  whom  I  could 
not  now  recognise. 

"But  where  have  you  been  living  all  these  weeks?" 
he  asked. 

"I  was  living  in  the  ruins  near  the  Fatih  Mosque," 
I  said  glibly — "and  I  used  to  lunch  and  dine  at 
various  cafes  in  the  city:  a  different  one  every  day. 
It  was  in  one  of  these  places  that  I  bought  the  pass- 
port." 


186  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

Djevad  Bey  considered  this  statement  for  a  mo- 
ment. There  was  a  nasty  look  in  his  eye  when  he 
spoke  again. 

"I  shall  never  rest  until  I  know  who  it  is  who  can 
forge  my  signature  so  well,"  he  said,  "and  until  I 
know,  I  am  afraid  you  will  be  very  uncomfortable, 
for  by  law  you  are  in  the  position  of  a  common  male- 
factor." 

"By  law  I  am  in  the  position  of  a  prisoner  of  war," 
I  answered.  "And  as  such,  I  am  liable  to  a  fort- 
night's simple  imprisonment,  for  attempting  to  es- 
cape. The  Turkish  Government  signed  this  agree- 
ment only  a  few  months  ago  with  the  British  repre- 
sentatives at  Berne." 

"A  man  who  forges  another's  name  is  not  an  of- 
ficer, but  a  forger,"  he  said  meaningly. 

"Say  what  you  like  and  do  what  you  like,"  I  an- 
swered, "I  am  in  your  power.  But  one  thing  I  ask, 
and  that  is  that  if  you  punish  me  you  should  liberate 
the  innocent  Theodore  and  his  family.  True,  we 
were  found  in  their  house,  but — " 

" — I  cannot  believe  what  you  say,"  said  Djevad 
Bey  thoughtfully. 

There  was  a  pause. 

Then — 

"Come,  come,  as  man  to  man,  won't  you  tell  me  who 
forged  that  passport?" 


BLACK  HOLE  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE  187 

"You  have  just  called  me  a  liar,"  said  I.  "That 
ends  the  matter." 

And  with  an  all-is-over-between-us  air  I  left  the 
room,  feeling  very  dizzy  and  uncomfortable. 

It  was  then  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  I 
had  not  yet  eaten.  My  first  experience  of  the  Mili- 
tary Prison,  Constantinople,  was  not  at  all  encour- 
aging. 

I  was  taken  downstairs  into  the  darkness,  on  en- 
tering this  inferno  of  the  damned  of  Enver  Pasha. 
There  were  cries  and  shouts  down  there,  and  men 
scrambling  for  food,  and  other  men  who  looked  like 
wild  animals,  behind  bars.  A  swarthy  custodian 
took  my  name,  and  I  then  proceeded  down  a  long 
corridor,  until  my  escort  reached  an  iron  portal, 
such  as  Dante  imagined. 

Lasciate  ogni  speranza  voi  cK  entrate.  .  .  .  The 
gates  had  clanged  behind  me,  and  I  was  in  a  long, 
low  room  below  ground  level,  airless,  ill-lit,  filthy 
with  tomato  skins  and  bits  of  bread.  Well-fed  rats 
were  scurrying  amongst  the  garbage,  and  badly-fed 
prisoners  were  pacing  the  room  forlornly,  scratching 
themselves,  and  gnawing  crusts  of  bread. 

They  gathered  round  me,  clamouring  for  news  and 
cigarettes.  In  less  than  no  time  they  had  picked 
my  pockets.  They  had  no  more  morals  than  monkeys. 
Poor  devils,  who  could  blame  them,  living  as  they  did 
down  there,  where  there  were  no  rumours  of  the  out- 


188  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

side  world,  except  the  cries  of  beaten  men,  and  the 
dull  sound  of  wood  on  flesh? 

"What  are  you  in  for?"  they  asked  me. 

"Forgery,"  said  I,  not  to  be  outdone  by  any  des- 
perado present. 

One  man,  however,  confessed  to  murder,  having  cut 
a  small  boy's  throat  a  few  months  before.  With  him 
I  could  not  compete.  But  the  most  of  us  were  fraud- 
ulent contractors,  spies,  petty  swindlers,  and  the  like. 
Our  morals,  as  I  have  said,  were  practically  nil,  yet 
I  noticed  that  two  Jews  lived  quite  apart,  and  were 
shunned  by  everybody.  By  trade  they  were  brigands, 
but  this  was  no  slur  on  their  character  as  criminals: 
the  failing  that  had  led  to  ostracism  was  that  they 
pilfered  the  other  prisoners,'  tomatoes.  That  was 
really  beyond  a  joke. 

One  of  my  newly  found  friends  took  me  to  a  bed, 
consisting  of  two  planks  on  an  iron  frame,  which  he 
said  I  could  have  for  my  very,  very  own.  He  also 
gave  me  a  piece  of  bread  and  some  water.  On  be- 
ginning to  eat  I  at  once  realised  how  hungry  I  was, 
and  enquired  how  I  should  obtain  further  nourish- 
ment. 

"Luxuries  are  very  difficult  to  obtain,"  he  said; 
"how  much  money  have  you  got?" 

"Twenty-five  piastres,"1  I  answered. 

shillings. 


BLACK  HOLE  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE    189 

He  pulled  a  long  face. 

"That  won't  go  far.  But  every  evening  at  eight, 
a  boy  comes  round  with  the  scraps  left  over  from  the 
officers'  restaurant.  Otherwise  you  will  live  on  bread 
and  tomatoes." 

"What  about  bedding?"  I  asked,  to  change  the 
subject. 

"Bedding!"  he  said,  looking  at  me  as  if  I  was  a 
perfect  idiot.  "Do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  come 
here  without  any  bedding?" 

I  admitted  I  had,  but  felt  too  exhausted  to  explain. 

One  was  utterly  lost  in  that  dungeon.  Even  when 
the  war  ended,  would  one  be  found?  I  doubted  it. 
Yet  as  I  would  naturally  never  reveal  the  forger's 
name,  it  seemed  unlikely  that  I  would  get  out.  .  .  . 
Then  I  thought  of  my  companions.  I  imagined  them 
happily  together,  in  some  place  where  one  could  see 
the  sky,  and  envied  them.  As  for  me  I  might  languish 
down  here  for  ever.  Obviously  something  should  be 
done. 

But  what?  I  rose  (rather  hastily,  for  on  looking 
between  the  planks  of  my  bed,  I  noticed  that  the  crack 
was  entirely  filled  with  battalions  of  board  beasts  in 
line,  waiting  for  a  night  attack)  and  began  to  pace 
our  narrow  and  nasty  apartment.  A  group  of  prison- 
ers were  cooking  some  pitiful  mess  by  the  window. 
Four  others  played  poker  with  a  very  greasy  pack. 


190  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

One  was  twiddling  his  thumbs  very  fast  and  I  sud- 
denly recollected  that  he  had  been  twiddling  his 
thumbs  very  fast  half  an  hour  ago,  when  I  had  first 
seen  him.  The  lonely  Jew  was  removing  lice  from 
the  seams  of  his  coat,  and  throwing  his  quarry  airily 
about  the  room. 

Then  I  noticed  that,  besides  ourselves,  there  were 
other  prisoners  even  more  unfortunate.  There  had 
been  so  much  to  see  in  my  new  surroundings  that  I 
had  not  noticed  the  people  in  chains.  One  side  of 
our  room  opened  out  on  to  some  half  dozen  cubicles, 
each  of  which  contained  a  prisoner  in  chains.  These 
cells  had  no  light  or  ventilation.  They  measured  six 
feet  in  length  by  four  in  breadth.  In  solitude  and 
obscurity,  fettered  by  wrist  and  ankle  to  shackles  that 
weighed  a  hundred  weight,  human  beings  lived  there 
— and  are  still  living  for  aught  I  know — for  months 
and  even  years,  until  death  released  them.  These 
men  were  ravenous  and  verminous,  but  they  had  by  no 
means  lost  their  hope  and  faith.  I  shall  never  hear 
the  hymn: 

*Thy  rule,  O  Christ,  begin, 
Break  with  Thine  iron  rod 
The  tyrannies  of  sin  .  .  ." 

without  remembering  that  an  Armenian  lad  said  those 
words  to  me,  lying  in  chains  in  one  of  these  cells. 


BLACK  HOLE  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE    191 

With  another  prisoner,  a  Greek,  who  had  endured 
eleven  months  of  this  torture,  I  also  had  some  speech. 

"Yes,  the  war  will  be  over  soon,"  he  said.  "My 
God,  how  good  this  cigarette  of  yours  tastes!  I 
haven't  touched  tobacco  for  a  month.  But  be  care- 
ful. The  sentries  must  not  see  you  speaking  to  me. 

"Yes,  the  chains  were  bad  at  first,"  he  continued 
when  the  sentry's  back  was  turned,  "but  one  gets  used 
to  anything,  in  time.  And  I  have  had  time  enough. 
It  takes  a  lot  to  kill  a  healthy  man.  Before  I  came 
in  here  I  used  to  be  strong  and  well.  I  used  to  ride 
two  hours  every  day,  on  my  own  horses.  Now  my 
horses  have  gone  to  feed  the  Turkish  Army  and  I  can 
hardly  drag  my  chains  as  far  as  the  water  tap.  But 
God  is  great.  .  .  ." 

God   is  great! 
Allahu  akbar! 

I  determined  to  get  away  from  that  dungeon  at  all 
costs:  if  for  no  other  reason,  than  because  I  had  to 
survive  to  write  about  it. 

I  went  to  the  big  gate,  and  tried  to  bluff  the  sentry 
to  let  me  go  to  see  the  commandant.  But  a  clean 
face  and  a  full  stomach  are  practically  necessary  to 
a  debonnaire  appearance.  When  one  is  scrubby  and 
starved,  it  is  almost  impossible  to  succeed  in  "wang- 
ling." I  stared  at  the  sentry  through  my  eye-glass, 


192  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

and  I  offered  him  my  twenty-five  piastres  as  if  I  had 
plenty  more  backsheesh  to  give  to  a  good  boy,  but  I 
utterly  and  dismally  failed  to  impress  him. 

"Yok,  yok,  yok"  he  said,  looking  at  me  as  one 
might  look  at  an  orang-outang  that  has 


Do  not  irritate  this  animal 


written  over  its  cage. 

I  gibbered  in  impotent  rage,  and  then  went  and 
put  my  head  under  a  tap. 

A  little  later,  I  was  drying  my  head  with  my  hand- 
kerchief, when  I  saw  some  barbers  come  to  the  big 
gate.  They  stood  there,  clapping  and  clacking  their 
strops.  Instantly,  my  fellow-prisoners  rushed  to  the 
gate  as  if  they  had  heard  the  beating  of  the  wings 
of  some  angel  of  deliverance.  This  was  apparently 
the  occasion  of  their  weekly  shave,  when  egress  to 
the  corridor  was  permitted,  the  barbers  naturally  not 
wishing  to  go  inside  our  loathsome  room. 

Taking  this  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men  at  the  flood, 
I  found  it  led  on  to  fortune.  I  was  in  the  corridor 
with  six  other  prisoners,  and  a  barber  confronted  me 
with  a  razor  in  his  hand.  He  whetted  his  steel  ex- 
pectantly, but  I  would  have  none  of  him,  and  seized 
a  passing  official  by  the  arm. 

He  was  a  dog-collar  gentleman. 

A  dog-collar  gentleman,  I  must  explain,  is  Author- 


BLACK  HOLE  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE  193 

ity  Incarnate.  On  his  swelling  chest  he  wears  a  cres- 
cent tablet  of  brass,  with  the  one  word  "Quanun"  in- 
scribed thereon.  "Quanun"  means  Law,  and  the 
wearer  of  this  badge  is  responsible  for  public  decorum 
of  every  kind.  If  a  Turkish  officer  be  seen  drinking 
alcohol  in  uniform,  or  playing  cards,  or  flirting,  or 
talking  disrespectfully  of  the  Germans,  or  indulging 
in  any  other  prohibited  amusement,  he  is  instantly  ar- 
rested by  the  dog-collar  gentleman,  and  brought  to 
prison.  In  his  official  capacity,  the  dog-collar  gen- 
tleman is  one  of  the  most  important  personages  in 
Turkey:  policeman,  pussyfoot,  and  prude  in  one. 

"There  is  some  mistake,"  I  said  excitedly.  "I  am 
a  British  officer,  and  have  been  put  in  a  room  with 
criminals." 

"You  a  British  officer?"  said  the  dog-collar  man 
incredulously. 

"A  captain  of  cavalry,"  said  I,  slipping  him  the 
twenty-five  piastre  note. 

"Pekke,  effendim"  he  answered.  "Very  good,  sir, 
I  will  see  what  can  be  done." 

I  had  burnt  my  boats  now. 

About  ten  minutes  later,  just  as  I  was  flatly  re- 
fusing to  either  be  shaved  or  return  through  the  gate, 
a  sergeant-major  and  a  squad  of  soldiers  arrived,  and 
bore  me  off  to  the  prison  commandant. 

Here  I  caught  sight  of  my  two  companions,  and 
was  able  to  fling  them  a  few  words  through  the  "Yok, 


194  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

yok"  of  the  sentries.  They  also  had  been  separated, 
and  put  amongst  criminals.  Their  lot  had  been  no 
different  to  mine. 

"A  slight  mistake  has  occurred,"  said  the  prison 
commandant  to  me,  "but  now  you  shall  have  one  of 
the  best  rooms  in  the  prison.  Only  I  am  afraid  you 
•will  be  alone  there,  until  after  your  trial." 

Of  course  I  did  not  believe  him,  but  I  was  glad 
that  I  was  to  be  alone. 

I  was  taken  to  a  room  on  the  upper  floor,  furnished 
with  a  bed  and  blanket,  and  with  a  window  opening 
on  to  a  corridor,  where  people  were  always  passing. 
The  commandant  had  spoken  the  truth.  It  was  quite 
a  good  room,  as  prison  apartments  go,  and  the  traffic 
of  the  corridor  amused  me. 

At  nine  o'clock  that  night  I  was  able  to  get  a  dish 
of  haricot  beans,  my  first  meal  of  the  day. 

Then  I  settled  down  to  a  month  of  solitary  con- 
finement. 

I  think  I  may  claim  to  write  of  this  torture,  which 
exists  not  only  in  Turkey  but  through  the  prisons  of 
the  civilised  world,  with  some  expert  knowledge.  I 
use  the  word  "torture"  because  it  is  nothing  less. 
Solitary  confinement  is  punishment  as  barbarous  and 
as  senseless  as  the  thumb-screw  or  the  rack:  more  so, 
indeed,  for  it  is  better  to  kill  the  body  than  to  maim 
the  mind.  The  spirit  of  man  is  more  than  his  poor 
flesh;  the  war  has  reminded  men  of  that  And  if  it 


BLACK  HOLE  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE  195 

has  also  reminded  us  that  our  prison  systems  are 
archaic,  so  much  the  better  for  the  world. 

At  times,  in  gaol,  a  tide  of  pity  rose  in  me  for 
all  life  created  that  is  caged  by  man. 

Take  a  felon  at  one  end  of  the  scale,  and  a  canary 
at  the  other.  The  felon  is  imprisoned  for  twenty 
years.  For  twenty  years,  less  some  small  remission 
for  good  conduct,  an  abnormal  brain  lives  in  abnormal 
surroundings,  where  hope  dies,  and  ideals  fail.  He 
has  sinned  against  society,  and  therefore  society  mur- 
ders his  mind.  Corporal  and  capital  punishment,  I 
have  come  to  believe,  are  saner  than  the  cruelties, 
immeasurable  by  "the  world's  coarse  thumb  and  fin- 
ger" suffered  by  the  mind  of  man  in  solitary  con- 
finement or  the  common  gaol.  The  sentimentalist 
who  shudders  at  the  cat  and  gallows  forgets  the  worse, 
slow,  hidden  horrors  that  pass  unseen  in  the  felon's 
brain.  Perhaps  the  sentimentalist  does  not  realise 
them.  Perhaps  also  the  old  lady  who  keeps  a  canary 
does  not  realise  the  feelings  of  her  pet.  She  may 
think  she  is  protecting  it  from  the  birds  and  beasts 
outside.  But  I  feel  now  that  I  know  what  the  canary 
feels.  .  .  .  However,  it  is  difficult  to  argue  about 
questions  involving  imagination. 

I  lived  on  hope,  chiefly,  during  the  days  that  fol- 
lowed. With  nothing  to  read,  no  cutting  instrument 
of  any  sort,  no  washing  arrangements,  and  no  one  to 
speak  to,  the  time  passed  hideously.  I  used  to  gaze 


1%  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

at  my  watch  sometimes,  appalled  at  the  slow  passage 
of  time.  The  second  hand  had  a  horrible  fascina- 
tion for  me.  It  simply  crawled  round  its  dial,  and 
each  instant,  between  the  jerks  of  the  little  hand,  the 
precious  moments  of  my  youth  were  passing  beyond 
recall.  Madness  lay  that  way.  If  I  had  been  a  real 
criminal,  I  wondered,  would  I  have  repented?  Un- 
questionably the  answer  was  No!  Solitary  confine- 
ment would  have  made  me  a  permanent  enemy  of 
society. 

There  were  no  smiles  and  soap  in  that  Military 
Prison,  no  scissors,  no  sanitation.  There  was  noth- 
ing human  or  clean  about  it.  Nothing  but  destruction 
will  rid  it  of  its  vermin,  or  scour  it  of  its  taint  of 
disease  and  death. 

Perhaps  the  lack  of  scissors  was  the  amenity  of 
life,  whose  absence  I  most  deplored.  Try  to  do 
without  a  cutting  instrument  for  a  month,  and  you 
will  realise  why  it  was  that  some  sort  of  cutting  edge 
was  the  first  need  of  primitive  man  and  remains  a 
prime  necessity  to-day. 

However,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  did  not  remain  a 
whole  month  without  a  cutting  edge.  Before  a  fort- 
night had  elapsed,  I  had  bettered  my  position  in  many 
ways.  I  had  secured  a  knife  (which  I  stole  from  the 
restaurant),  a  wash  basin  (sent  from  the  embassy), 
and  pencil  and  paper  (from  a  friendly  clerk)  with 
which  I  used  to  correspond  voluminously  with  the 


BLACK  HOLE  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE    197 

other  British  prisoners,  by  various  privy  methods. 

I  had  a  regular  routine  for  my  days  now.  Early 
mornings  were  devoted  to  walking  briskly  up  and 
down  my  room  in  various  gaits — the  sailor's  roll  for 
instance,  and  the  Napoleonic  stride,  and  the  deport- 
ments of  various  of  my  acquaintance.  During  this 
time  I  avoided  thinking,  but  generally  imagined  some 
incident  in  which  I  took  a  distinguished  part.  In 
the  forenoon  I  played  games,  such  as  throwing  my 
soap  to  the  ceiling  and  catching  it  again,  or  juggling 
with  cigarettes,  both  lighted  and  unlighted.  The  aft- 
ernoon generally  passed  in  sleep,  but  the  evening  and 
nights  were  bad.  It  was  then  that  the  second  hand 
of  my  watch  began  to  exert  its  fascination.  The  elec- 
tric-light bulb,  however,  could  occasionally  be  tam- 
pered with,  and  on  these  occasions  there  was  always 
the  hope  that  the  sentries  would  get  a  shock  in  put- 
ting it  right.  Also  I  found  amusement  in  my  watch- 
chain,  which  I  made  into  an  absorbing  puzzle. 

But  curiously  enough,  I  found  it  impossible  to 
write  anything,  except  lengthy  letters. 

A  real  prisoner  in  a  well-constituted  prison  does 
not  perhaps  enjoy  his  days  any  more  than  I  did.  On 
the  other  hand  he  knows  how  long  his  sentence  is 
going  to  last,  whereas  with  me  I  was  confined  during 
Djevad  Bey's  pleasure,  or  the  duration  of  the  war, 
and  each  day  brought  me  nearer  nothing — except  in- 
sanity. 


198  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

One  evening,  however,  an  Imperial  Son-in-Law  en- 
tered my  room,  and  lit  my  life  with  a  certain  interest. 
His  father,  who  was  a  court  official,  had  betrothed 
him  to  a  princess,  and  he  had  consequently  assumed 
the  title  of  Damad,  or  Son-in-Law.  This  youth  had 
had  a  remarkable  career.  While  still  a  guileless  lad, 
scarcely  broke  from  the  hareem,  he  had  used  his  re- 
volver so  injudiciously  that  he  had  seriously  dam- 
aged one  of  the  Imperial  apartments,  besides  killing 
the  elderly  colonel  at  whom  he  was  aiming.  Enver 
Pasha  had  of  course  himself  a  weakness  for  this  sort 
of  thing,  but  still,  to  save  appearances,  the  Damad 
had  to  be  punished.  He  was  therefore  condemned 
to  three  months'  confinement  in  the  Military  Prison. 
Although  nominally  in  residence  there,  he  used,  how- 
ever, to  leave  prison  every  Friday  to  attend  the  Sul- 
tan's Selamlik  and  only  return  on  Monday  night. 

Moreover,  he  not  only  thoroughly  amused  himself 
during  his  protracted  week-ends,  he  also  squeezed 
every  bit  of  pleasure  possible  out  of  his  prison  days. 
Life  was  a  lemon,  which  he  sucked  with  grace.  He 
was  free  to  wander  where  he  wished  in  the  prison, 
and  to  eat  and  drink  what  he  liked.  The  best  of 
everything  was  good  enough  for  the  Damad.  Grapes 
came  for  him  from  the  Sultan's  garden,  and  a  faith- 
ful negro  slave  was  always  at  his  heels. 

The  Damad  had  rather  charming  manners.  He 
knocked  politely  before  entering  my  cell. 


BLACK  HOLE  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE    199 

"Excuse  my  interrupting,"  he  said,  "but — " 

"You  are  not  interrupting  me  at  all,"  I  answered, 
getting  up  from  my  bed.  "I  do  wish  you  would  stop 
and  talk.  Have  a  cigarette?  I  haven't  talked  to 
anyone  for  a  fortnight." 

"I  am  so  sorry,  but  I  daren't  talk  to  you.  That 
is  a  pleasure  to  come.  I  wanted  to  borrow  some- 
thing, that's  all.  And,  I  say,  will  you  allow  me  to 
offer  you  one  of  my  cigarettes? — they're  the  Sultan's 
brand,  you  know.  Better  take  the  box.  Well,  I  saw 
you  with  an  eye-glass  through  the  window  in  the  pas- 
sage. Will  you  lend  it  me  to  appear  at  the  next 
Selamlik?" 

I  was  delighted  and  said  so.  To  my  sorrow, 
the  Damad  instantly  took  his  departure. 

"Smuggle  me  in  something  to  read,"  I  said,  as  he 
left  with  profuse  apologies  for  his  hurry. 

He  nodded,  and  his  long  left  eye-lash  flick- 
ered. 

Next  day  his  little  nigger  boy,  when  the  sentry's 
back  was  turned,  popped  about  twenty  leaflets  into  my 
window.  I  seized  them  avidly,  and  found  that  they 
were  the  astounding  adventures  of  Nat  Pinkerton  in 
French.  Never  have  my  eyes  rested  so  gleefully  on 
a  printed  page.  I  consumed  them  cautiously,  else  I 
should  have  gorged  myself  with  excitement  at  a 
single  sitting.  Like  an  epicure  I  made  them  last, 
by  always  breaking  off  at  the  critical  juncture  of 


200  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

the  great  detective's  affairs.  From  that  moment  my 
life  flowed  in  more  agreeable  channels. 

"Devouring  time,  blunt  thou  the  lion's  paws"  .  .  . 

I  suddenly  understood  Shakespeare's  meaning  afresh. 
Time  had  dulled  the  clawing  of  regret. 

I  had  failed  to  escape,  it  is  true,  but  there  was 
always  hope.  Things  were  getting  better.  The 
women  had  been  released.  Theodore  only  awaited 
a  formal  trial.  My  own  condition  had  improved.  I 
had  been  moved  from  my  solitary  confinement,  just 
when  I  had  secured  a  Bible,  and  a  large  tin  of  Keat- 
ing's,  wherewith  to  combat  the  devils  of  captivity. 
But  any  change  is  better  than  none  at  all,  I  thought. 
The  mortal  hunger  for  companionship  is  strong,  and 
my  new  room,  besides  containing  an  officer,  also  en- 
joyed an  excellent  and  varied  view. 

After  a  few  days'  experience  of  my  new  room- 
mate, however,  who  was  a  Bulgarian  Bolshevik,  I 
began  to  pine  for  solitude  again.  He  was  a  Tishbite 
of  the  worst  order,  but  fortunately  he  was  smaller 
than  I.  When  I  found  him  washing  his  feet  in  my 
basin  one  night,  I  smote  him,  hip  and  thigh. 

That  Bulgarian  has  coloured  my  whole  view  of  the 
Balkans.  But  the  less  said  about  him,  the  better. 

One  day  about  thirty  British  officers  arrived  from 
the  camp  at  Yuzgad,  whence  they  had  escaped  and 
been  recaptured  on  the  occasion  when  Commander 


BLACK  HOLE  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE    201 

Cochrane  and  his  gallant  band  of  seven  marched  four 
hundred  and  fifty  miles  to  freedom.  All  the  party 
who  arrived  in  the  Military  Prison  were  in  uniform, 
and  in  excellent  spirits.  They  were  like  a  breath 
of  fresh  air,  in  that  sordid  place. 

On  being  put  into  three  rooms,  these  thirty  brave 
men  and  true  at  once  demanded  beds  to  sleep  on.  In 
due  time  the  beds  arrived,  in  the  usual  condition  of 
beds  in  that  place.  They  might  have  been  so  many 
Stilton  cheeses.  Our  thirty  prisoners,  despite  the  pro- 
test of  the  guards,  carried  out  their  couches  into  the 
passage,  and  lit  two  Primus  stoves.  Over  these  stoves 
they  proceeded  to  pass  the  component  parts  of  each 
bed,  so  that  its  occupants  were  utterly  exterminated. 

Imagine  the  scene.  A  dismal  corridor,  a  flaming 
stove,  Turkish  sentries  protesting,  with  Hercules,  in 
khaki,  cleansing  the  Augean  stable.  .  .  .  But  protests 
were  useless.  The  smell  of  burnt  bugs  mingled  with 
the  other  contaminations  of  the  prison.  Our  officers 
had  done  in  little  what  civilisation  will  one  day  do  at 
large  throughout  that  land. 

One  day  a  British  officer,  going  to  the  feeding  place, 
looked  in  to  a  window  which  gave  onto  my  room. 

But  I  was  kept  strictly  apart  from  my  fellows,  and 
the  sentry  consequently  tried  to  drag  the  officer  away. 

"Leave  me  alone,  you  son  of  Belial!"  said  he. 
"Isn't  a  window  meant  to  look  through?" 


202  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

Windows  in  the  prison  were  certainly  not  meant  to 
look  through. 

From  my  new  eyrie  I  had  a  composite  view  of 
startling  contrasts.  Down  below,  some  soldiers  were 
living  in  a  verandah,  behind  wooden  bars.  Anything 
more  animal  than  their  life  it  would  be  impossible 
to  conceive.  Every  afternoon  at  three  o'clock,  a  pa- 
rade of  handcuffed  men  were  marshalled  two  by  two, 
and  then  pushed  into  these  dens.  Beyond  them  lay 
the  city  of  Stamboul,  with  its  clustered  cupolas  and 
vine-trellised  alleyways.  And  beyond  the  city  were 
the  blue  waters  of  the  Marmora. 

Then  there  was  the  window  in  the  passage  through 
which  the  British  officer  had  observed  me.  This  gave 
me  a  view  of  the  traffic  of  the  prison,  so  that  I  knew 
who  was  being  tried,  who  received  visitors,  and  so  on. 
And  directly  opposite  me,  in  another  face  of  the  build- 
ing, was  yet  another  window,  with  curtains  drawn. 
That  was  the  window  of  the  Hall  of  Justice.  Directly 
under  my  perch,  but  rather  too  far  to  jump,  were  some 
telegraph  lines,  which  might  possibly  have  provided 
a  means  of  escape.  Sentries  used  to  watch  me  care- 
fully, whenever  I  looked  at  these  telegraph  lines.  I 
was  considered  a  dangerous  and  desperate  character 
and  my  every  movement  was  regarded  with  appre- 
hension. Not  only  was  no  one  (except  now  the  Bul- 
garian) allowed  to  speak  to  me,  but  if  I  ever  looked 
at  anything,  or  at  anyone,  for  long,  a  sergeant-major 


BLACK  HOLE  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE    203 

used  to  be  called,  to  bid  me  desist.  I  was  always 
being  told  to  desist.  Whatever  I  did,  in  fact,  I  was 
told  not  to  do  it. 

Eventually  I  'had  a  scene. 

The  immediate  cause  was  that  I  had  a  glimpse,  one 
day,  of  a  sitting  in  the  Hall  of  Justice.  I  had  often 
wondered  what  passed  there,  for  at  times  faint 
screams  used  to  hint  of  the  infamies  that  passed  be- 
hind those  curtains. 

One  day  I  saw. 

The  Hall  of  Justice  is  a  fine  room,  with  a  lordly 
sweep  of  view  over  the  city  and  the  sea.  Why  any- 
one chose  such  a  situation  as  a  torture  chamber  I  do 
not  know.  But  there  it  was.  There  was  something 
dramatic  about  the  beautiful  prospect  and  the  bestial 
people  who  sat  with  their  backs  turned  to  it,  interrogat- 
ing the  Armenians. 

"Every  prospect  pleases  and  only  man  is  vile." 

Very  vile  were  the  two  Turkish  officers,  judges,  I 
suppose,  who  sat  smoking  cigarettes,  while  an  old 
Armenian  woman  and  her  son  stood  before  them  to 
be  tried.  What  passed  I  could  not  hear,  but  evidently 
her  answers  were  not  satisfactory,  for  presently  the 
policeman  who  stood  behind  her  kicked  her  violently, 
so  that  her  head  jerked  back  and  her  arms  flung  for- 
ward, and  she  was  sent  tottering  towards  the  judges' 
table.  Then  the  policeman  took  a  stick  as  thick  as  a 
man's  wrist,  and  began  to  beat  her  over  the  head  and 


204  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

shoulders.  Her  son  meanwhile  had  fallen  on  his 
knees,  and  was  crawling  about  the  room,  dragging 
his  chains  and  supplicating  first  the  judges  and  then 
the  policeman.  He  was  imploring  them,  no  doubt, 
to  have  pity  on  his  mother's  age  and  weakness. 

She  fell  down  in  a  faint.  The  policeman  kicked 
her  in  the  face,  and  then  prodded  her  with  a  stick 
until  she  rose. 

I  wish  the  people  who  are  ready  to  "let  the  Turk 
manage  his  own  country"  could  have  seen  that  savage 
pantomime. 

I  tried  to  get  out  to  stop  it,  but  was  driven  back 
with  bayonets. 

Djevad  Bey,  the  military  commandant  of  Constan- 
tinople, with  a  resplendent  retinue,  arrived  one  day 
to  inspect  us.  With  his  long  cigarette  holder,  and 
long,  shiny  boots,  he  swaggered  round,  followed  by 
ormolu  staff  officers  and  diligent  clerks  and  pompous 
gentlemen  in  dog-collars.  Everywhere  around  him 
was  dirt,  disease,  destitution,  and  despair.  But  our 
modern  Gallio  "cared  for  none  of  these  things."  He 
was  himself,  with  his  medals  and  moustaches,  and 
that  was  enough. 

"What  more  do  you  want,  effendi?"  he  asked  me 
after  I  had  made  a  few  casual  complaints  (for  it  was 
useless  to  take  him  seriously).  "You  have  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  views  in  Europe  from  the  garden." 


BLACK  HOLE  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE    205 

"But  I  am  not  allowed  into  the  garden." 
"Have  a  little  patience,  mon  cher,"  said  he.     "It  is 
rather  crowded  with  older  prisoners  now.     But  in  a 
little  time,  perhaps,  when  I  have  discovered  the  name 
of  that  forger.  .  .  ." 

And  with  a  condescending  smile  he  passed  on  be- 
tween ranks  of  sentries  standing  stiffly  at  attention, 
to  inspect  another  portion  of  his  miserable  menagerie. 

Ah,  Djevad,  mon  cher,  those  days  seem  distant 
now!  You  and  your  popinjays  have  passed.  There 
is  no  room  in  the  world  for  the  likes  of  you. 


CHAPTER  XII 

OUR   SECOND   ESCAPE 

THE  ghosts  of  the  prisoners  of  the  Tower,  or  of  the 
Bastille,  could  they  revisit  earth,  would  undoubtedly 
have  found  themselves  more  at  home  in  the  Military 
Prison,  Constantinople,  than  anywhere  else  in  the 
world.  The  Dark  Ages  were  still  a  matter  of  actuality 
in  the  dark  dungeons  of  Constantinople  in  1918.  To 
he  tried,  for  instance,  was  there  considered  some- 
thing very  up  to  date.  Most  prisoners  were  not  tried 
until  their  sentence  was  nearly  over,  when  they  were 
formally  liberated. 

After  a  month  of  solitary  confinement,  and  a  week 
of  confinement  with  the  Bulgarian,  which  was  an  even 
worse  travail  of  the  spirit,  I  received  the  joyful  news 
that  the  preliminaries  for  my  court-martial  were  al- 
most complete. 

I  attended  this  first  sitting  with  the  thrill  of  a 
debutante  going  to  a  ball.  I  determnied  to  make 
up  arrears  of  talk.  And  I  did.  I  began  at  the  be- 
ginning of  my  life,  sketched  my  education,  and  came 
by  easy  stages  to  my  career  as  an  officer  in  the  Indian 
Cavalry.  The  clerk  who  recorded  my  evidence  wrote 

206 


OUR  SECOND  ESCAPE  207 

for  two  hours  without  pause  or  intermission,  but  it 
is  worthy  of  record  that  at  the  end  of  that  time  we 
had  only  reached  the  point  where  an  officer  of  the 
Psamattia  fire  brigade,  hearing,  as  I  thought,  a  suspi- 
cious movement  on  the  roof  of  the  house  across  the 
street,  kept  a  stern  and  steadfast  gaze  in  our  direction, 
while  we  crouched  trembling  under  cover  of  the  para- 
pet. At  this  point  the  proceedings  were  adjourned. 

But  the  Court  had  let  fall  a  useful  piece  of  in- 
formation. Robin  was  back  in  prison,  but  was  being 
kept  even  more  secret  and  secluded  than  I. 

However,  love  laughs  at  locksmiths,  and  it  takes 
more  than  a  Turkish  sentry  to  defeat  a  persevering 
prisoner.  We  sighted  each  other  in  passages,  we  met 
in  wash  places,  we  flipped  notes  to  each  other  in  bits 
of  bread,  or  sent  them  by  a  third  party  concealed  in 
cigarettes.  By  such  means,  I  learnt  Robin's  remark- 
able story.  After  being  caught  at  Malgara,  ten  days 
after  his  first  escape,  he  was  taken  back  to  the  Central 
Jail,  where  he  was  treated  as  a  Turkish  deserter  and 
given  nothing  but  black  bread  to  eat.  He  thereupon 
went  on  hunger  strike  for  three  days,  and  alarmed 
the  Turks  by  nearly  dying  on  their  hands.  Later  he 
was  allowed  to  purchase  a  liberal  diet,  including  even 
wine  and  cigars,  which  he  declared  were  necessary 
to  his  health,  but  his  constitution  being  enfeebled  by 
privation,  he  developed  alarming  swellings  over  his 
face  and  scalp,  which  were  probably  due  to  some 


208  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

noxious  ingredient  of  the  hair  dye  he  had  used.  In 
this  condition  he  was  sent  to  hospital,  and  from  hospi- 
tal he  escaped  again.  A  Greek  patient  was  his  ac- 
complice. 

Giving  this  man  ten  pounds  to  buy  a  disguise  with, 
he  made  an  appointment  with  him  for  nine  o'clock 
outside  the  German  Embassy  ( ! )  and  then  set  out  on 
his  adventures  dressed  in  a  white  nightshirt.  How 
he  eluded  the  sentries  is  a  mystery  to  me,  al- 
though I  inspected  the  place  after  the  armistice.  Pa- 
tients were  then  saying  (Turks,  who  are  sometimes 
sportsmen,  among  them) — "Here  is  where  a  British 
officer  escaped.  Thus  and  thus  did  he  climb — past 
the  sentries — along  that  buttress — down  into  the  street 
hard  by  the  guard-house!"  He  arrived  punctually 
at  nine  o'clock  at  the  German  Embassy,  in  his  night- 
shirt. But  the  Greek  was  not  there.  He  was  at  that 
moment  drinking  and  dicing  with  Robin's  money. 
For  half  an  hour  Robin  waited  for  him,  by  a  tree 
in  the  shadows  of  a  side  street  leading  to  the  sea. 
The  few  people  who  passed  him  stared  hard,  and  then 
moved  nervously  across  to  the  other  pavement.  They 
had  no  doubt  but  that  he  was  a  madman.  Robin,  I 
think,  felt  he  was  a  madman,  too.  In  his  present  sit- 
uation and  dress,  detection  was  only  a  matter  of  time. 
However,  chance  might  be  kind  and  send  him  a  dis- 
guise. Cold  and  disconsolate,  he  ascended  the  main 
road  that  leads  to  the  top  of  the  Grand  Rue  de  Pera, 


OUR  SECOND  ESCAPE  209 

and  taking  his  way  through  the  traffic,  dipped  down 
into  the  ruins  beyond.  The  saint  who  protects  pris- 
oners must  have  guided  that  tall  white  figure  that 
paddled  across  the  busy  town.  .  .  .  And  more,  once 
he  was  hiding  in  the  ruins,  the  saint  must  have  sent 
along  the  small  boy  who  passed  close  to  him  in  that 
lonely  spot  of  cypresses  and  desolation.  All  unknow- 
ing of  the  fate  that  awaited  him  behind  the  angle  of  a 
wall,  the  small  boy  strode  sturdily  along,  thinking, 
perhaps,  of  the  nice  bran-bread  and  synthetic  coffee 
that  awaited  him  for  supper.  Robin  pounced  out 
of  the  shadow,  and  seized  him  by  the  scruff  of  the 
neck.  The  victim  instantly  began  to  blubber. 

"Give  me  all  your  clothes,"  said  Robin. 

"Who  are  you?"  sobbed  the  little  boy. 

"Brigand,"  said  Robin  shortly. 

This  answer  had  the  desired  effect.  The  youth 
dried  his  tears  and  divested  himself  of  his  apparel, 
which  Robin  immediately  put  on.  The  boots  were 
much  too  small  to  wear  and  were  returned.  Still, 
the  brigand  was  so  satisfied  with  his  clothes  that  he 
gave  the  small  boy  four  pounds,  with  a  magnanimous 
gesture.  Then  he  set  out  to  seek  his  fortune  wearing 
a  tiny  fez,  and  a  coat  whose  sleeves  reached  halfway 
down  his  forearm.  For  four  days  he  dodged  about 
the  city,  never  more  than  a  few  hours  at  one  place, 
until,  just  when  his  strength  and  his  funds  were  ex- 
hausted, he  found  a  house  to  give  him  shelter.  From 


210  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

here  he  made  a  plan  to  escape,  but  was  recaught 
through  treachery  at  the  docks,  and  taken  back  to 
the  Military  Prison.  Only  an  Ali  Baba  could  do 
justice  to  these  experiences.  Alas,  the  best  books  of 
adventure  are  just  those  which  are  never  written. 

Anyway  we  were  together  again,  two  desperadoes  in 
dungeon,  "apart  but  not  afar." 

The  Damad's  little  nigger  boy  often  contributed 
to  our  schemes  for  communication.  This  lad,  who 
was  in  training  for  the  position  of  keeper  of  the 
hareem,  and  consequently  belonged  to  the  species  that 
rises  to  eminence  in  Turkey,  was  a  remarkable  child. 
He  did  exactly  what  he  liked,  and  no  one  dared  in- 
terfere with  the  little  Lord  Chamberlain  in  posse.  He 
had  an  uncanny  brain  and  uncanny  strength,  and  I 
can  quite  understand  the  reliance  which  Turkish 
Pashas  are  wont  to  repose  in  these  servants.  I  relied 
on  him  myself  at  times,  and  was  never  disappointed. 

The  arrival  of  a  neutral  Red  Cross  delegate,  at 
about  this  time,  did  much  to  secure  us  better  treat- 
ment. For  over  five  weeks  now  I  had  not  breathed 
fresh  air,  but  directly  the  Red  Cross  delegate  arrived, 
I  was  allowed  to  go  to  the  bath,  escorted  by  two  dog- 
collar  gentlemen  with  revolvers,  and  two  sentries  with 
side  arms.  While  glad  to  feel  I  was  employing  so 
many  of  the  Turkish  Army  while  at  my  ablutions,  I 
could  not  but  deplore  their  anxiety  on  my  behalf. 

"No  officer  has  ever  succeeded  in  escaping  from 


OUR  SECOND  ESCAPE  211 

this  wonderful  gaol  of  yours,"  I  said  to  the  prison 
commandant,  who  was  quite  a  good  fellow  in  his 
way,  "and  I  don't  suppose  anyone  ever  will.  Why 
therefore  go  to  the  trouble  of  guarding  us  so  closely? 
It  would  be  a  very  graceful  act  on  your  part  if  you 
allowed  us  to  go  occasionally  into  the  garden." 

"Farm,  inshallah"  murmured  the  commandant, 
meaning  "To-morrow,  please  God." 

And  to-morrow,  strange  to  say,  actually  arrived 
in  about  a  week's  time. 

Perhaps  a  bomb-raid  hastened  matters,  by  stimulat- 
ing the  commandant's  desire  to  do  graceful  acts 
before  the  war  was  over. 

One  of  the  bombs  of  this  raid  dropped  in  the  school 
playground  just  outside  the  Seraskerat  Square,  and 
shattered  all  the  windows  in  my  passage.  Fortunately 
all  the  children  were  away,  it  being  Friday.  No 
one  was  killed  by  that  bomb,  but  a  large,  handsome 
Turkish  officer  prisoner  standing  beside  me  in  the 
passage,  when  some  panes  of  glass  beside  us  burst, 
threw  himself  on  the  floor  and  refused  to  rise  again, 
declaring  he  was  killed.  A  full  ten  minutes  he  lay, 
with  his  moustaches  in  the  dust,  surrounded  by  sen- 
tries. In  the  confusion  that  ensued,  Robin  clev- 
erly slipped  over  to  me  and  we  had  a  very  useful 
chat. 

The  first  and  most  vital  thing  to  do,  we  decided, 
was  to  get  into  Constantinople,  in  order  to  learn  how 


212  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

the  situation  really  stood,  and  make  our  plans  for  es- 
caping, so  that,  in  the  event  of  our  success,  we  should 
be  in  possession  of  knowledge  useful  to  the  Allies. 

Having  settled  this,  we  returned  to  our  respective 
cells  where  I  witnessed  a  scene  that  by  contrast  with 
the  behaviour  of  the  nervous  Turkish  officer  reminded 
me  of  the  habitual  calmness  of  the  Ottoman  tempera- 
ment. 

The  average  Turk  has  no  "nerves"  at  all.  The 
bomb  that  had  dropped  in  the  playground  had  wrecked 
a  large  tree  that  stood  in  its  centre,  and  hardly  had 
its  smoke  cleared  away  before  an  elderly  peasant 
appeared  with  a  donkey  and  started  collecting  twigs 
and  splinters  for  firewood.  Slowly  and  stolidly, 
under  that  barrage-riven  sky,  the  old  man  continued 
gathering  the  aftermath  of  the  raid,  before  the  raid 
was  finished.  Empires  might  crumble  to  the  dust: 
he  would  cook  his  dinner  with  the  pieces. 

This  bombing  business  "cleared  the  air"  for  us 
greatly,  and  another  little  incident  clinched  matters. 

An  officious  sentry,  who  had  received  the  usual 
orders  about  treating  Robin  with  especial  severity, 
so  far  exceeded  his  instructions  as  to  slap  Robin  in 
the  face  when  he  was  merely  standing  at  the  door  of 
his  room.  Robin  instantly  knocked  him  down  with 
a  hook  on  the  point  of  the  jaw  that  would  have  sent 
a  prizefighter  to  sleep,  let  alone  a  posta.  There  was 
a  click  of  rifles  and  a  glitter  of  bayonets.  Sergeants 


OUR  SECOND  ESCAPE  213 

were  whistled  for.     Swords  and  spurs  rang  down  the 
corridor.     The  commandant  arrived. 

What  seemed  an  awkward  situation  for  Robin  at 
first,  now  turned  greatly  to  his  advantage.  He  de- 
manded an  apology  from  the  Minister  of  War,  and  al- 
though he  did  not  receive  this,  our  treatment  imme- 
diately improved.  The  Turkish  sentry  was  so  clearly 
in  the  wrong  that  the  commandant  felt  he  should  do 
something  to  placate  us. 

One  day  Robin  and  I  were  told  that  we  would  be 
allowed  into  Constantinople  to  shop,  provided  we  gave 
our  "parole"  not  to  escape  while  in  the  town. 

This  we  immediately  decided  to  do,  and  wrote  a 
promise  stating  that  while  we  could  give  no  permanent 
engagement  about  our  behaviour  while  guarded  in 
prison,  if  we  were  allowed  out  into  the  town  we  bound 
ourselves  to  return  faithfully  to  our  quarters  at  a 
fixed  time.  Next  day  accordingly,  we  dressed  in  the 
quaint  apologies  for  clothes  in  our  possession,  and 
sallied  out,  blinking  in  the  sunlight  of  the  square. 

Imagine  our  surprise  when  we  found  an  escort  of 
ten  armed  men,  who  were  to  accompany  us  to  see 
that  we  kept  our  word.  Highly  incensed,  we  returned 
directly  to  the  commandant's  office,  followed  by  our 
retinue.  At  first  the  commandant  did  not  understand 
the  nature  of  the  insult  he  had  offered  to  us,  but 
eventually  he  agreed  that  a  squad  of  soldiers  was  un- 
necessary to  enforce  an  Englishman's  promise,  and 


214  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

he  promised  to  send  us  out  again  on  the  following 
day,  more  suitably  attended. 

This  time  there  were  only  two  dog-collar  gentlemen 
to  accompany  us,  and  although  we  were  later  joined 
by  a  third,  who  (I  think)  smelt  beer  and  beef  in 
the  offing,  we  considered  that  this  number  of  attendants 
was  not  unsuitable  to  our  importance.  (For  a  long 
time  after  escape,  indeed,  I  was  always  expecting  to 
find  a  sentry  at  my  elbow.  They  were  very  convenient 
for  carrying  parcels,  and  during  this  excursion  the 
minions  of  the  law  actually  carried  back  to  prison 
our  escaping  gear,  wrapped  in  harmless-looking  pack- 
ages.) Rope,  fezzes,  and  maps  were  the  articles 
chiefly  required,  and  were  purchased  without  much 
difficulty  in  restaurants  where  we  were  known.  Robin 
and  I  were  adepts  at  this  sort  of  thing  by  now.  One 
of  us  had  only  to  go  over  to  our  escort's  table,  and 
standing  over  them,  enquire  whether  they  preferred 
black  beer  or  yellow:  meanwhile  the  other  would  be 
"wangling"  the  waiter.  Besides  material  accessories, 
we  also  required  certain  moral  support.  Was  k 
worth  while  to  escape?  Would  the  Bulgarians  at- 
tack Constantinople?  What  was  the  morale  of  the 
Tchatchaldja  garrison?  .  .  .  All  this  and  much  more 
we  learnt  from  Miss  Whitaker,  whom  we  met  (just 
by  chance,  do  you  think?)  at  tea  at  the  Petits  Champs. 

We  returned  from  our  excursion  highly  satisfied 
with  our  prospects.  That  evening  we  thanked  the 


OUR  SECOND  ESCAPE  215 

comm'andant  warmly  for  our  delightful  day,  and 
asked  one  favour  more;  namely,  that  we  should  be 
allowed  out  regularly  into  the  garden,  in  order  to  get 
the  exercise  necessary  to  our  health.  An  hour's  walk 
every  day  would  greatly  relieve  the  tension  of  cap- 
tivity. Surely,  we  said,  the  commandant  did  not 
intend  to  keep  us  caged  like  wild  beasts,  with  a  mini- 
mum of  air  and  exercise? 

Permission  was  granted,  with  the  proviso  that 
we  should  not  talk  to  other  prisoners.  Of  all  black 
sheep  we  were  the  blackest  ones. 

So  we  walked  in  the  garden,  and  discussed  plans 
of  escape.  We  now  had  fezzes,  rope,  and  plenty  of 
money.  On  the  other  hand  there  were  so  many  sen- 
tries everywhere,  and  so  many  doors  and  barriers  to 
get  through,  that  the  thing  seemed  impossible  at  first. 
Bribery  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  Any  attempt  in 
this  direction  would  have  sent  us  through  the  portals 
of  the  damned  again,  to  await  the  end  of  the  war  in 
chains. 

Only  in  the  garden  was  there  the  slightest  chance 
of  success.  Our  chance,  however,  lay,  as  before,  in 
the  element  of  the  unexpected. 

On  the  far  side  of  the  garden  from  the  prison 
were  some  iron  railings,  which  overlooked  a  drop  of 
from  fifty  to  a  hundred  feet  to  a  street  below.  These 
railings  were  spaced  at  just  about  the  width  of  a 
man's  head.  We  tested  them  at  various  points  while 


216  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

apparently  engaged  in  looking  at  the  view,  and  made 
a  note  of  the  gaps  most  suitable  to  squeeze  through. 
No  one  appeared  to  think  it  likely  we  would  try  to 
escape  over  a  precipice.  The  six  sentries  in  the  gar- 
den, therefore,  whose  sole  duty  it  was  to  watch  us, 
generally  devoted  their  attention  to  seeing  we  did  not 
talk  to  the  Greek  clerks  who  came  into  the  restaurant 
(see  frontispiece)  to  get  their  dinner  of  an  evening. 
Beyond  occasionally  saying  the  magic  word  "Yok," 
they  allowed  us  to  do  much  what  we  liked  at  the  other 
side  of  the  garden  where  our  interests,  they  thought, 
could  only  be  of  an  innocent  nature. 

At  first,  our  idea  was  to  get  through  the  railings 
and  slide  down  a  rope  into  the  street,  but  there  were 
practical  difficulties  about  this.  Fifteen  fathoms  of 
rope  are  impossible  to  conceal  on  one's  person.  Be- 
sides, we  thought  of  a  better  plan. 

Having  got  through  the  railings,  we  would  climb 
along  outside  them,  past  the  garden,  and  along  the 
wall  of  a  printing  house,  where  their  support  still 
continued,  until  we  reached  the  main  square  of  the 
Seraskerat.  Here  we  would  squeeze  back  through  the 
railings  (for  the  drop  was  still  too  difficult  to  nego- 
tiate) and  proceed  as  follows: —  We  would  stroll 
to  the  centre  of  the  square,  light  cigars,  and  then  sud- 
denly altering  our  demeanour  hurry  back  to  the  staff 
garage  where  the  military  motor  cars  were  kept.  The 
sentry  on  guard  would  certainly  think  we  were 


OUR  SECOND  ESCAPE  217 

chauffeurs  looking  as  German  and  as  business-like 
as  possible.  With  a  guttural  curse  or  two,  we  would 
start  up  a  car,  and  drive  directly  to  the  Bulgarian 
frontier,  or  Dedeagatch,  as  the  situation  dictated.  If 
anyone  attempted  to  stop  us  on  the  way,  we  had  only 
to  say  "Kreuzhimmel  donnerwetter"  and  open  out  the 
throttle.  The  plan  was  charming  in  its  simplicity 
and  kolossal  in  conception.  We  already  imagined 
ourselves  arriving  with  full  details  of  the  Constan- 
tinople defences,  in  a  big  Mercedes  car.  The  plan 
was  complete.  We  only  had  to  do  it! 

Opportunity  came  one  twilight  evening,  when  we 
two  were  alone  in  the  garden,  with  the  six  sentries, 
all  rather  sleepy,  and  the  Damad,  who  had  just  re- 
turned from  a  hectic  week-end  up  the  Bosporus,  and 
was  full  of  stories  and  news  which  we  did  not  want  to 
hear.  For  a  time  he  bored  us  to  tears  talking  of  the 
war,  but  at  last  conversation  flagged,  and  we  bade  him 
a  cordial  good-night,  making  an  appointment  to  see 
him  again  next  day,  which  we  trusted  we  would  not 
be  in  a  position  to  keep. 

Then  we  edged  to  the  far  side  of  the  garden,  where 
the  railings  were.  The  six  sleepy  sentries  were 
watching  the  stream  of  people  going  into  the  restaurant 
near  the  entrance  gate.  They  paid  no  attention  to  us, 
and  looked — rather  sadly  I  thought — at  the  Greeks 
who  were  coming  in  to  have  a  square  meal,  a  thing 
that  they  themselves  could  only  dream  of. 


218  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

Feeling  that  the  moment  was  too  good  to  be  lost, 
and  yet  somehow  too  good  to  be  true,  we  stood  by  the 
railings,  with  our  heads  half  through. 

"Come  on,"  said  Robin  cheerily. 

I  put  my  head  through  and  my  flinching  flesh  fol- 
lowed a  moment  later.  I  hung  over  the  drop  and 
looked  and  listened  tensely  for  any  stir  in  the  garden, 
expecting  every  moment  to  hear  the  clamour  of  sen- 
tries, and  the  drone  of  bullets.  But  all  was  quiet. 
One  sentry  lit  another's  cigarette.  A  third  was  play- 
ing with  a  kitten.  The  others  had  their  backs  turned. 

We  clambered  along,  and  reached  the  printing 
house.  We  were  out  of  sight  of  the  sentries  now,  and 
the  way  seemed  clear,  across  a  patch  of  ivy,  to  a  gap 
which  would  give  us  entrance  to  the  main  square. 
Once  we  had  gained  its  comparative  freedom,  success, 
I  felt,  was  certain. 

But  my  hope  was  short-lived.  The  railings  on  the 
wall  of  the  printing  house  led  past  an  open  window, 
which  we  had  not  been  able  to  see  from  the  garden. 
At  this  window  three  Turks  were  sitting.  They  were 
officials  of  the  printing  house,  no  doubt,  and  were 
now  engaged  in  discussing  short  drinks  and  the  pros- 
pect of  the  Bosporus.  Had  we  interposed  our  bodies 
between  them  and  the  view,  we  would  have  been  in  a 
very  unpleasant  position.  With  one  finger  they  could 
have  pushed  us  down  to  the  street  a  hundred  feet 
below,  or  else  detained  us  where  we  were,  to  wait 


OUR  SECOND  ESCAPE  219 

like  wingless  flies  until  soldiers  came  to  drag  us  back. 

It  was  a  horrid  anticlimax,  but  we  decided  to  go 
back.  There  was  no  alternative. 

That  return  journey  was  quite  hideous,  for  at  any 
moment  before  we  reached  our  gap,  a  sentry  might 
have  seen  us.  And  even  if  they  had  missed  us  at 
fifty  yards  (and  we  were  a  sitting  shot  against  the 
afterglow  of  the  sunset)  we  would  have  looked  ab- 
solutely foolish  and  been  abjectly  helpless. 

All  went  well,  however.  We  squeezed  back 
through  the  railings,  and  found  ourselves  in  the  prison 
garden  again.  Our  attempt  had  failed.  I  felt  as 
if  someone  had  suddenly  flattened  me  out  with  a  roll- 
ing pin.  But  Robin  was  quite  undismayed. 

"Our  luck  is  in,"  he  said,  "else  we  would  have 
been  spotted  against  those  railings  just  now.  Look, 
it  is  a  full  moon,  like  the  last  time  we  escaped.  I 
bet  we  succeed  to-night." 

"I  won't  take  your  money,"  I  said;  hugely  heart- 
ened, however. 

Four  of  our  sentries  were  smoking  sadly,  and  look- 
ing into  the  restaurant,  as  boys  look  into  a  cake  shop. 
The  fifth  was  standing  by  the  gold-fish  pond.  The 
sixth  leant  against  the  railings,  about  eighty  yards 
away  from  us,  looking  out  towards  Galata  Bridge. 

After  hurriedly  dusting  ourselves,  we  walked 
straight  past  him.  He  turned  and  glanced  at  his 
watch,  and  then  at  us. 


220  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

"Just  five  minutes  more,"  we  urged,  "we  haven't 
had  nearly  enough  exercise  yet." 

And  we  continued  walking  briskly  round  the  gar- 
den, breathlessly  discussing  plans. 

The  sentry  nodded  and  sighed,  then  turned  again 
to  contemplate  the  Golden  Horn. 

Our  one  remaining  chance  was  to  walk  straight  out 
of  the  gate  near  the  restaurant,  into  the  main  square. 
In  moments  of  intense  stress  one  can  sometimes  grasp 
the  psychology  of  a  situation  in  a  flash.  We  saw  into 
the  minds  of  the  sentries,  I  believe.  They  were  bored 
and  unsuspecting.  A  sort  of  prevision  came  to  us 
that  we  would  be  mistaken  for  Greek  employees  of  the 
Ministry,  and  could  stroll  unquestioned  through  the 
gate,  if  we  acted  instantly. 

It  was  getting  dark  now.  We  slipped  into  a  patch 
of  shadow,  threw  away  our  hats  and,  taking  out  the 
fezzes,  which  we  always  carried  concealed  under  our 
waistcoats,  we  put  them  on  our  heads.  Then  we 
strolled  on. 

To  understand  our  feelings,  it  must  be  remembered 
that  no  officer  has  ever  before  succeeded  in  escaping 
from  this  ancient  prison.  The  Turks  prided  them- 
selves on  the  fact.  Recently,  a  political  suspect  had 
made  a  desperate  dash  for  liberty  by  the  same  en- 
trance as  we  now  approached,  but  he  had  been 
caught  before  he  reached  the  outer  square.  Good 
men  had  tried — but  fools  rush  in  where  angels 


OUR  SECOND  ESCAPE  221 

fear  to  tread.  And  we  knew  we  would  not  be 
stopped. 

We  walked  very  slowly  now,  stopping  sometimes 
to  gesticulate,  after  the  manner  of  the  Mediterranean 
peoples.  What  we  said  I  have  no  idea,  but  I  think 
I  spoke  staccato  Italian,  while  my  friend  answered 
in  Arabic  imprecations.  The  tension  of  the  moment 
was  such  that  every  instant  is  cut  like  a  cameo  in 
memory.  Near  the  gate  I  remember  saying  to  him 
passionately  in  English: 

"For  God's  sake  turn  your  trousers  down,"  for 
to  one's  sensitive  mind  such  an  oddity  of  dress  was 
certain  to  spell  detection. 

Mingling  with  the  Greeks  who  were  coming  out 
of  the  restaurant,  we  came  very,  very  leisurely  to 
the  sentry-guarded  gate.  Everyone  has  a  pass,  of 
course,  both  to  enter  and  to  leave  this  gate,  but  season 
ticket  holders,  so  to  speak,  are  rarely  asked  to  produce 
their  credentials. 

We  came  level  with  the  sentries  at  the  gate.  One 
of  them  took  a  step  forward,  as  if  to  ask  Robin  a 
question.  Then  he  looked  at  us  again,  and  changed 
his  mind.  I  have  a  sort  of  idea  that  my  white  waist- 
coat and  ornamental  watch-chain  saved  the  situation. 
No  one  with  such  belongings  could  be  anything  but 
a  clerk. 

In  that  instant,  however,  faith  had  almost  faltered, 
and  the  temptation  to  quicken  one's  pace  had  been 


222  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

almost  irresistible.  To  bolt  into  the  comparative 
freedom  of  the  main  square  was  now  quite  feasible, 
but  we  had  to  remember  that  once  there,  our  diffi- 
culties were  only  half  over.  Every  gate  was  guarded : 
the  same  high  railings  as  we  had  already  negotiated 
formed  its  perimeter,  and  there  was  a  battalion  of 
soldiers  in  the  square  itself.  Therefore  until  we  were 
out  of  the  Seraskerat,  we  had  to  proceed  with  caution. 

Lethargically  and  nonchalantly  we  drew  away  from 
the  restaurant.  Although  time  was  now  a  factor  of 
importance,  for  at  any  moment  the  sentries  in  the 
garden  might  miss  us,  we  dared  not  hurry  our  steps. 

"There  are  no  cars  about.  Are  we  going  into  the 
garage?"  I  murmured  doubtfully  to  Robin. 

At  that  moment  an  individual  came  up  behind  us 
who  settled  the  question  for  us.  He  was  a  Turkish 
officer.  After  passing  us,  he  turned  round  to  stare. 
We  returned  his  scrutiny  with  careful  composure,  but 
it  was  quite  obvious  that  he  did  not  like  the  look  of 
us.  Yet  our  appearance  was  none  of  his  business: 
he  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  decided  to  do  exactly 
what  one  might  do  oneself  if  one  saw  a  suspicious- 
looking  individual  in  a  public  place;  he  went  and 
told  a  policeman.  We  saw  him  hurrying  to  the  main 
gate,  where  he  called  out  a  sergeant  of  the  guard. 
We,  meanwhile,  were  slinking  diagonally  across  the 
square,  as  if  bound  for  the  side  gate.  To  go  to  the 
centre  of  the  square,  and  then,  retracing  our  steps, 


OUR  SECOND  ESCAPE  223 

to  hurry  back  to  the  garage  as  if  approaching  it  from 
the  Ministry  of  War,  was  now  impossible,  as  we  were 
being  watched. 

It  was  almost  past  twilight,  but  the  electric  light 
over  the  main  gate  showed  us  the  Turkish  officer  in 
confabulation  with  the  sergeant  of  the  guard.  No 
doubt  he  was  saying  that  our  passports  should  be 
scrutinised  before  we  were  allowed  to  pass.  The 
sergeant  saluted  as  the  officer  left,  and  then  stood  in 
the  circle  of  light,  a  burly  and  menacing  figure,  peer- 
ing into  the  gathering  darkness. 

We  had  now  reached  the  middle  of  the  Seraskerat 
and  saw  that  the  side  gate  was  shut,  and  sentry- 
guarded.  There  was  also  a  sentry  in  the  adjacent 
shed.  The  main  gate  was  impossible  of  access.  So 
also  was  the  garage.  Our  only  chance  lay  in  going 
forward. 

We  went  on,  past  the  shed,  until  we  reached  some 
small  trees  by  the  side  of  the  outer  railings.  We  tried 
to  put  our  heads  through,  but  owing  to  a  slight  dif- 
ference of  spacing,  we  found  this  could  not  be  done. 
We  would  have  to  climb  over  them. 

A  couple  of  people  were  crossing  the  square.  The 
sergeant  stood  blinking  at  the  entrance.  Else  all  was 
quiet. 

The  railings  were  only  some  twelve  foot  high,  so 
they  did  not  form  a  serious  obstacle,  but  on  their 
other  side  there  was  a  drop  of  ten  feet  into  a  crowded 


224  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

street.  That  someone  would  raise  an  alarm  seemed 
very  probable. 

From  the  top  of  the  railings  I  looked  back  to  the 
prison  where  I  had  passed  the  last  two  months,  and 
then  forward  to  the  street. 

Two  little  girls  stood  hand  in  hand,  gaping  up  at 
me.  A  street  hawker  glanced  in  my  direction.  Ex- 
cept for  these,  no  passer-by  appeared  to  notice  us. 

I  dropped  in  a  heap  on  the  pavement.  Next  mo- 
ment Robin  had  landed  beside  me. 

We  were  free  once  more,  this  time  not  to  be  re- 
caught. 

The  two  little  girls  clapped  their  hands  with  glee 
when  they  saw  us  drop.  As  to  the  street  hawker,  I 
daresay  he  thought  we  were  robbers,  and  as  such, 
people  not  to  be  interfered  with.  The  other  passers-by 
merely  edged  away  from  us.  No  one,  in  Constan- 
tinople, will  involve  himself  in  any  civil  commotion 
if  he  can  avoid  it.  Whether  the  disturbance  be  a  fire 
or  theft,  the  procedure  is  the  same.  If  your  neigh- 
bour is  being  robbed,  you  look  the  other  way.  If 
your  house  is  being  burnt,  you  bribe  the  fire  brigade 
not  to  come  near  it,  for  if  they  do,  they  will  assuredly 
loot  everything  that  the  flames  do  not  consume. 
Hence  the  sight  of  two  wild  men  dropping  into  a 
crowded  street  stirred  no  civic  conscience.  No  one 
asked  who  we  were. 


OUR  SECOND  ESCAPE  225 

We  crossed  the  tramway  lines  unmolested,  and 
dived  into  a  narrow  street  leading  down  the  hill. 
Then  we  ran  and  ran  and  ran. 

That  our  escape  would  be  instantly  reported  we 
did  not  doubt.  That  Galata  Bridge  would  be  watched, 
and  all  our  old  haunts  also,  seemed  certain.  The 
care  with  which  we  had  been  guarded  showed  that 
the  Turks  set  a  value  on  keeping  us  out  of  harm's 
way.  At  large  in  the  city  we  would  be  factors  of 
unrest. 

Avoiding  main  streets,  we  toiled  on  and  on,  through 
dark  by-ways  where  the  moonlight  did  not  come, 
until  we  reached  the  old  bridge  across  the  Golden 
Horn.  Here  we  decided  to  separate  for  the  time,  so 
that  if  one  of  us  was  caught  by  the  toll-keepers,  the 
other  could  still  make  good  his  escape. 

But  the  toll-keepers  took  their  tribute  of  a  stamp 
without  demur.  They  knew  nothing  of  British  pris- 
oners. 

Crossing,  we  turned  right-handed,  passing  behind 
the  American  Ambassador's  yacht  Scorpion,  at  her 
berth  near  the  Turkish  Admiralty;  and  then  went  up 
into  the  European  quarter.  In  Pera  we  knew  a  score 
of  houses,  between  us,  that  would  be  glad  to  give  us 
lodging,  and  it  only  remained  to  choose  the  most 
convenient. 

Of  the  maze  of  plot  and  counterplot  in  the  city, 


226  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

of  the  death-throes  of  the  old  regime,  and  of  our 
own  small  part  in  the  history  of  that  time,  this  record 
of  moods  and  mis-adventures  is  not  the  place  to  write. 
My  life  as  a  prisoner  was  finished:  my  brief  career 
as  a  minor  diplomat,  keeping  his  finger  on  the  fever- 
ish pulse  of  Turkish  politics,  had  only  just  begun, 
and  the  story  of  those  crowded  weeks  would  fill  a 
volume. 

Up  to  the  last  moment,  the  Government,  in  the 
person  of  Taalat  Pasha,  hoped  to  hold  the  real,  if 
not  the  ostensible,  reins  of  power.  Until  the  flight 
of  the  Union  and  Progress  triumvirate,  the  average 
Turk  affected  a  certain  lightheartedness  about  his 
country's  losses.  True,  Arabia,  Palestine,  and  Meso- 
potamia were  gone,  but  on  the  other  hand  they  had 
gained  the  Caucasus.  So  long  as  there  was  taxable 
territory,  what  did  it  matter  whence  the  tribute  came? 

One  night,  when  my  newspaper  work  permitted,  1 
visited  a  friend  of  Taalat  Pasha,  without  disclosing 
my  identity. 

"Nobody  but  Taalat  can  possibly  manage  Turkey," 
he  told  me,  "and  the  English,  if  they  come,  will  be 
well  advised  to  deal  with  him." 

"It  is  not  the  English  only,"  I  suggested  modestly, 
"but  the  whole  world  set  free  that  is  coming  to  Con- 
stantinople." 

"Then  the  world  must  deal  with  Taalat.     His  party 


OUR  SECOND  ESCAPE  227 

has  all  the  money,  and  all  the  brains  and  energy  as 
well." 

"Everything  except  imagination,"  I  replied. 

But  I  did  not  imagine  myself  that  only  thirty-six 
hours  later,  Taalat,  the  fat  telegraphist,  whom  Fate 
caught  in  her  toils,  and  Enver  with  his  peacock-grace 
and  peacock-wits,  and  Djemal,  with  cruelty  stamped 
on  him  like  the  brand  of  Cain,  would  pass,  disguised 
and  in  darkness  and  in  fear  of  death,  through  the 
city  they  had  ruled  as  kings. 

Neither  did  I  imagine  that  in  another  fortnight  the 
streets  of  Pera  would  be  decked  with  banners  and 
the  capital  of  the  Turks  a  playground  for  the  peoples 
against  whom  they  had  lately  been  at  war.  Nor  did 
I  know  that  I  should  soon  be  listening  to  the  strains 
of  "Rule  Britannia"  at  the  Pera  Palace  Hotel,  while 
an  enthusiastic  crowd  showered  confetti  on  the  bald 
head  of  the  colonel  who  had  just  arrived  as  the  first 
British  representative.  I  did  not  know  that  I  should 
telephone  to  the  papers  to  stop  their  press,  while  I 
motored  down  with  a  little  interview  from  our  dele- 
gate. Nor  again,  could  I  realise  that  the  pomp  of 
the  Prussians  would  be  so  suddenly  replaced  by  pipes 
and  walking  sticks  and  dogs  and  the  sun-tanned  feat- 
ures of  our  troops,  and  that  the  big  Mercedes  car 
in  which  General  Liman  von  Sanders  was  still  racing 
through  the  streets  would  soon  be  my  property,  bought 


228  CAUGHT  BY  THE  TURKS 

and  paid  for  in  gold,  complete  with  all  accessories, 
including  even  the  chauffeur's  diary,  and  garaged 
in  a  garden  where  a  performing  bear  stood  guard 
against  any  attempt  at  theft  by  the  disorderly  and 
demoralised  Germans.  These  things  are  another 
story. 

It  is  late  at  night,  some  days  before  the  armistice. 
I  am  in  the  gardens  of  the  British  Embassy,  with  a 
certain  colonel,  an  escaped  prisoner  of  war  like  my- 
self, who  is  in  close  touch  with  the  political  situation. 
We  had  come  here,  in  disguise,  to  be  out  of  the  turmoil 
of  the  town. 

Outside,  in  the  unquiet  streets,  men  talked  of  revo- 
lution. Gangs  of  soldiers  were  under  arms  for 
twenty-four  hours  at  a  stretch.  Machine  guns  were 
posted  everywhere.  The  docks  were  an  armed  camp. 
Detectives  and  informers,  the  prison  and  the  press- 
gang,  were  at  their  old  work.  All  was  still  dark  in 
Constantinople,  but  we,  fugitives  at  present,  and  meet- 
ing by  stealth,  spoke  of  the  day  so  soon  to  come  when 
the  barren  flagstaff  on  the  roof  of  the  embassy  would 
carry  the  Union  Jack. 

Below  us,  as  we  walked  on  the  terrace,  was  the 
Golden  Horn,  silver  in  the  starlight,  and  across  its 
waters  the  city  of  Stamboul  stood  dim,  forlorn,  and 
lovely.  The  slip  of  moon  that  rode  over  San  Sofia 
seemed  symbol  of  the  waning  of  misery  and  intoler- 


OUR  SECOND  ESCAPE  229 

ance.  Soon  that  sickle  would  disappear,  and  when 
the  moon  of  the  Muslims  rose  again  and  looked 
through  the  garden  where  we  talked,  she  would  see 
all  round  it  a  happier  city. 


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